


my heart was broke, my head was sore

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Cooking, David is a wonderful boyfriend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is fine, Family, Going Home, Illnesses, M/M, Medical Procedures, Panic Attacks, are we doing boyfriend?, stevie is a great friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: “Um,” his voice cracks and he clears his throat and tries again, “Um, Patrick can’t come into work today?”“Oh?” Alexis asks, keeping the question carefully nonchalant which really only makes things worse. If she’s sparing his feelings then shit surely must be hitting the fan.“Yeah.”“Did he say why?” Again, meticulously neutral.“No.”Or, the morning after Grad Night goes somewhat differently when Patrick gets a call from home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "I think in the other scene with David, too, there’s a lot of tension but it’s really been amazing to play off of Dan and feel in certain moments particularly how he and David can morph into a caregiver almost. He takes care of Patrick. I think one of the things that audiences have really enjoyed is watching these guys play with each other but also take care of each other when they need to. That’s what makes it a great relationship."  
\- Noah Reid

David is eyeing the cake left over from the night before and wondering how badly Alexis will judge him if he grabs a fork and digs right in. Her judgment, however, would be a welcome reprieve from the interrogation she’s currently subjecting him to.

“So you and Patrick are sitting in his car last night and you just - leaned in and kissed him.” 

He twists one of his silver rings around his finger and glares, thoroughly regretting telling her anything about the night before. “Okay, what part of this conversation don’t you understand?” 

“And he wanted that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like - he _ told _ you that he wanted that.” 

Oh my God. “Fall off a bridge, please.” 

“You gave me such a hard time for getting involved with Ted. Then you just _ french _ your business partner literally the second he peeks his head out of the closet.” 

No, nope. They’re not doing this. She won’t let him regret what happened. “I’ll have you know this is the healthiest first day of a relationship I’ve ever had.” 

Are they doing ‘relationship’? It floors him how much he hopes so. 

“Well, all I know is that Patrick is a sweet lil button-face, David, so don’t mess this up.” 

Yeah, he _ knows_. Patrick is his business partner. No one needs to tell him that there’s so much more riding on this than just the potential for a bruised heart. Furthermore, he wants to argue that, despite his _ considerable _ track record, he doesn’t mess up every relationship he begins, but his phone buzzes before the words can leave his mouth, which is honestly for the best because verbally eviscerating his sister is not on his list of things to do before 9am. 

He flips the phone over and sees Patrick’s name on the screen. He couldn’t help the smile that splits his face even if he tried. 

The feeling, however, is short-lived. 

**[Patrick]**   
**I can’t come in today. **

_ Fuck. _

Immediately David’s stomach plummets. 

_ Oh, oh fuck. _

Patrick thinks it was a mistake. He’s regretting everything. He kissed David and realized he’s not gay. He wants to back out of the store. He’s moving and the store will fail without him and forget a bruised heart, David can already feel his cracking and - 

“David, what’s wrong with your face?” Alexis asks, pressing pause on his downward spiral, but by no means alleviating the gut-churning anxiety currently making his ears ring. “You have, like, zero blood in your cheeks.” 

He opens his mouth, but his voice deserts him. Maybe if he doesn’t say it out loud, give it credence, it won’t come true. 

“David!” Alexis snaps, a hint of worry tinting her tone. 

“Um,” his voice cracks and he clears his throat and tries again, “Um, Patrick can’t come into work today?” 

“Oh?” Alexis asks, keeping the question carefully nonchalant which really only makes things worse. If she’s sparing his feelings then shit surely must be hitting the fan. 

“Yeah.” 

“Did he say why?” Again, meticulously neutral. 

“No.” 

She grabs his phone and it’s only because his fingers are numb that she’s able to snatch it from his grasp. 

_ Breathe, David. In and out. _

She frowns at the screen but doesn’t seem to be able to read anything into Patrick’s message. Then again, what the fuck could she _ possibly _glean from a five word declarative sentence? 

“Well, why don’t you ask him before you nosedive into a Xanax,” she says knowingly, gently handing the phone back. Ugh, _ gently. _

_ In and out. _

He licks his lips and nods, thumbs fumbling in a way that not even autocorrect can help. It takes him three tries to type out, **Are you okay? **before he’s tossing the phone onto the table so he doesn’t have to see if an ellipsis appears with Patrick’s response. 

He’s purposefully trying to keep his breathing even, but when a reply doesn’t come after one minute, and then two, he gives up on calm and accelerates directly back into panic. 

“Well, what else could it be, _ Alexis_?” 

“I don’t _ know_, David. And neither will you unless you call him.” She nudges the phone back at him, but he stands from his chair swiftly enough to tip it over, as if the phone were a moth coming for his cashmere. 

His father’s voice echoes through the partially closed door separating the rooms and, while usually not enough to distract him from something as riveting as Patrick, the topic is certainly something to circle back to in a moment.

_ “... man is dead. We can’t have the other guests finding out about a dead body in one of the rooms.” _

“Ew! There’s a dead body in one of the rooms?” Alexis yells, jumping up and throwing the door open. 

“Oh my _ God_, could you focus?” David barks, shutting the door in his Dad’s face and ignoring the fact that Stevie seemed to just say that there was a dead fucking body in room fucking four. 

“Ugh, David, just call him! Stop being so dramatic!” she snaps, but ‘dramatic’ is his M.O. She _ knows _ this. 

He wishes she had remained calm. He shouldn’t have pushed her. Her unusual lack of histrionics had honestly been helping, not that he’d ever tell her that. 

“Ugh, fine!” With shaking fingers, he taps Patrick’s name, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly as he lifts the phone to his ear and leans against the closed door. He may be sick. 

Patrick picks up after the fourth ring. “Hi - sorry, I can’t talk right now.” He sounds weird. Distracted. Upset? 

“Are - are you all right?” 

“Um, yeah - I just - ” There’s a thud and a muffled curse. 

“Patrick?” 

Alexis raises her eyebrows and he just waves her away, turning his back and debating whether or not he should lock himself in the bathroom. He can’t go into his parents’ room. They’re discussing dead things. 

Patrick clears his throat and there’s another thud. “Yeah, my, uh, my dad had a heart attack.” His voice goes high at the end, like it’s a question. Or like he’s having trouble keeping his emotions in check. “I have to go home.” 

“Oh my God,” he says as he turns back around, and Alexis’ expression goes from frustrated to concerned. It’s an odd look for her. “Is he - are you - ” He honestly doesn’t know what to say in this situation. 

He can hear Patrick moving around, most likely gathering things to pack. “I don’t know. My mom doesn’t know much yet - ” His voice breaks and so does David’s heart. “They just got him to the hospital.” 

“I’m coming with you,” he blurts out before he can even register the words leaving his mouth. 

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone and the rustling stops. “What?” 

_ What? _ his brain screams. 

“Um, I’m coming with you? I mean - if you, if you need company. I can - I’m happy to do that. With you.” He doesn’t dare look at his sister. 

Patrick is silent on the other end of the line for far too long, and David wants nothing more than for the grody motel carpeting to swallow him whole. 

“But the store,” Patrick murmurs after a moment. 

“But your father,” he quietly replies and Patrick sucks in a breath. “I’ll get someone to watch the store,” he says, ignoring the way Alexis’ hand shoots up. “Um, Stevie’s dealing with a thing at the moment, I think, but I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” 

Alexis rolls her eyes, but her expression is compassionate, and David honestly doesn’t know whether to be touched by her concern for Patrick or worried that she’s been sneaking their mother’s muscle relaxers. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he says, even though he has no idea where they’re going or for how long. He has no sense of the veritable fucking minefield of emotion he’s willingly walking into. He is not usually the person anyone wants in a high stress situation, but here he is, offering himself up on a platter. 

He just knows that Patrick’s father has had a heart attack and David doesn’t want him to be alone. 

“I’ll pack a bag and we’ll leave from here,” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. 

“Okay,” Patrick murmurs, “I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Five.” 

“Five,” Patrick echoes, sounding a bit more like his old self, fond and amused. And possibly a touch relieved. God, David hopes he’s relieved. 

He sags back against the door again and looks down at his phone. Alexis doesn’t immediately hound him for answers, which is a novelty if there ever was one. 

“Patrick’s father had a heart attack,” he says numbly. Alexis blinks at him for a moment before standing up, stalking to the closet and throwing the doors open. 

“You can use my Louis Vuitton, but don’t tell Mom. She’s been eyeing it.” She pulls the bag down off the top shelf and tosses it on her bed. “Pack layers. From what I’ve heard him say, he grew up in the mountains.” 

“I thought he grew up on a farm,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and Alexis snorts. 

“You just wish he did.” 

“Alexis,’ he snaps and she looks chagrined. 

He feels bad immediately, opening his mouth for an apology that won’t come, but she’s already moved away to the desk where he knows he left laminated, detailed instructions for her should she ever, in the case of natural disaster or loss of life or absolute last resort-circumstances, have to take care of the store. He watches her read it out of the corner of his eye as he packs a practical bag with just the essentials in what must be a new land speed record for him. 

The rise and fall of voices on the other side of the door vaguely registers as he stuffs the bag with carefully folded clothes. He can’t deal with his family right now, no matter how warranted their freaking out is. With two minutes to spare, he heads into the bathroom and haphazardly dumps his bottles into the bag. He’s never been so careless with his moisturizing routine in his life. 

He glances back at the door through which he can still hear their parents arguing, before meeting Alexis’ scrutiny. 

“You’ll tell them?”

She nods, but she needs to understand that if there was ever a moment in his life when he needed her, it’s now. Putting down the bag and grabbing her hands, he works to keep the intense anxiety and potential regret for everything he’s about to do out of his voice as he says what he needs to: 

“If you fuck this up, I do not think I can make it right, do you understand? I need the store to be okay, because I need Patrick to be okay and he won’t be okay if he loses both his father and his baby. So, if you can’t do it for me, then do it for him.” 

For once in her life, Alexis doesn’t roll her eyes or brush him off with a perfectly inflected, ‘ugh, David.” She merely nods her head and stares at him solemnly but determinedly. 

“Button needs help. Got it. Now give me the keys, the store was supposed to open 15 minutes ago.”

xxxxxx

He opens the door to their room just as Patrick is exiting his car, looking about as wrecked as David expects him to: pale skin, bloodshot eyes, anxiety layered over an imperfectly hidden, but healthy level of fear. David can only imagine what he’s feeling. 

They stare at each other for a second that stretches, unsure what to do with a moment that would have already been loaded given the circumstances of the previous evening, but which has been made infinitely more complicated regardless. He takes a few steps forward and drops his bag, wordlessly opening his arms and allowing Patrick to take the final step into them. 

His arms come around Patrick’s shoulders and David feels him tense for a second before sinking into the embrace and clutching at his sweater. 

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, running a hand up and down his back. 

“Okay,” Patrick whispers hoarsely, before offering a slight wave to Alexis, who’s standing in the doorway. She blows him a kiss in return which gets a small smile from him as well. 

David would offer to drive but Patrick is the one who knows where they’re going, and he probably wants the distraction anyway. Sitting in the passenger seat, stewing in his worry, wouldn’t do either of them any good. 

He tosses his bag in the backseat and straightens his white leopard print sweater, suddenly wishing he’d chosen his usual black. It’s more on theme, he thinks. 

_ What the actual fuck, David? _

“Any word?” he asks, and it comes out louder than he means it to. 

Patrick nods and swallows. “They're going to take him in for surgery.” 

David fingers literally itch to touch him. Is that possible? Is that a thing? “How long is the drive?” he asks instead. 

_ Too long, _his brain thinks and Patrick must agree because he’s practically biting out, “Three hours.” 

“Ah,” David breathes. An awkward silence settles in the car and, normally, he would ask if Patrick was feeling regrets about last night, but now is not the time. Obviously. 

“Can you type out a text to my mom from me?” Patrick interrupts and David blinks. 

“What?” 

“I want to give her a heads up that you’re coming.” 

“Oh,” he murmurs, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “Will she mind?” Oh my God, what was he thinking? Just _ inviting _ himself to someone else’s family crisis. 

_ Patrick isn’t just someone, though. _

“No offense, and this is no reflection on you,” Patrick murmurs, “but I’m honestly not sure she’ll even notice.” 

David knows that’s not a slight against him. Were he in her position, he’s not sure he’d notice much either. 

“Just say, ‘A friend is coming with me,” Patrick continues, pulling his phone from the cup holder and using his thumbprint to open it. 

_ Friend. _ ** _Friend._ **

Right.

As if he can read his mind, Patrick is clearing his throat and shifting in his seat. “I feel like I should apologize.” 

David’s head swivels to him. “What? Why?” 

“When I texted you this morning saying I couldn’t come in, I should have realized the optics would have looked bad.” 

“Oh,” he says. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” 

_ You weren’t an hour ago_, his brain unhelpfully supplies. 

When there’s silence next to him, he chances a glance up to find Patrick watching him carefully, longer than he should be considering he’s _ driving _ a _ car_, as if he knows _ exactly _ how not fine David was. Ugh. 

“Alexis texted you, didn’t she,” he says, immediately looking down at the phone in his hand. 

Patrick smiles. It’s small, but it’s something. “She may have.” 

“She said I freaked out.” 

“It wasn’t _ quite _ the term she used, but yes, basically.” 

“Bitch,” he mutters and Patrick exhales something that could have been a laugh, before reaching over and slowly, deliberately taking his hand. 

“I am sorry.” 

David swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. The same lump that seemed to magically appear the night before after Patrick murmured, ‘Thank you.’

“Don’t ever apologize for anything that happened this morning,” he says. “Or last night for that matter.” 

Patrick smiles in a way that’s shy yet excited; that tells David that the topic of regrets is not something he needs to worry about today. If ever. Patrick returns his eyes to the road and his hand to the steering wheel. David tries not to whimper at the loss and what’s _ that _ about?

“Um, it locked again.” He holds the phone out and Patrick uses his thumb to open it once more. 

He wants to look up what Alexis sent but Patrick gave him a very important task and so he ignores his sister’s name at the very top of the messages, thumbs past his own name, and pulls up the thread simply labeled ‘Mom.’ 

The last message Patrick sent her was, _**I’ll drive as fast as I can. **_

Her response, in typical overprotective Mom fashion was, ** Don’t you dare. **

**_A friend is coming with me._ **he types and hits ‘send’ before he can second-guess himself, fiddling with the phone for a moment in his lap before it lights up with a response. 

**[Mom]**   
**I’m glad you have someone. Drive carefully. **

“Did she reply?” Patrick asks and his voice sounds tight. 

“Yeah, she - uh - she said she’s glad you have someone,” he murmurs, flushing slightly. “And drive carefully.” 

“Tell her I am. She worries.” 

Instead, he texts Patrick’s mother’s contact information to himself and texts her from his own phone. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice and David doesn’t think he’ll mind. He just doesn’t want his mom to think he’s letting Patrick text and drive, or that he’s been reading their private conversation. Only part of it. 

_ **He is. This is David, the friend, by the way. I’ll make sure he gets to you in one piece. ** _

Her reply is swift. ** Thank you, David. **

He hasn’t been in a hospital waiting room since Alexis got appendicitis in Chile, but he remembers being bored out of his mind. Texting friends and family is all there is to stave off the panic, not that he has much of either. The Brewers on the other hand: 

_ “Cousins who are more like siblings anyway.” _

Which brings him to how he fits into everything. 

He clears his throat and places Patrick’s phone carefully back into the cupholder. “Um, seeing as last night was the first time you’ve kissed a guy, I’m going to assume that your parents don’t…” he makes a vague gesture at himself and then at Patrick and then at the space between them, which suddenly seems absolutely insurmountable.

Patrick swallows, but doesn’t take his eyes from the road. 

“No, they don’t know. Um, honestly I - uh, I haven’t talked much. To them.” He admits it like it physically pains him, and David can understand why. Every story he’s told about his family has been full of warmth and love and humor. They’re clearly close. To hear that Patrick hasn’t really been in touch with them is… weird. And surprising. And sad. But perhaps worrisome most of all. 

“Is this why?” he asks, gesturing between them again, and he hates how small he sounds. The Brewers sounded like such lovely people, but you never know.

“No - I mean,” Patrick huffs out a breath and shakes his head, shoulders slumping. “I guess? But I didn’t realize it at the - at the time.” Then he groans and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you - and telling you in the car is definitely not how I wanted to do it, or even right - it’s not something you bring up on day one,” he rambles and David is getting more and more concerned the more worked up Patrick gets. 

He places his hand on Patrick’s tense thigh and squeezes. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” 

But Patrick shakes his head. “No, you’re probably going to find out when we get there, and I’d - ” he inhales deeply and finally looks over at him, eyes clear, as he places his hand on David’s and squeezes back, “I’d rather you hear it from me.” 

“Okay,” David quietly replies, fear clawing up the back of his neck to whisper in his ear _ I told you so. _He watches Patrick visibly swallow again, Adam’s apple bobbing as he keeps his eyes firmly on the road. 

“I used to be engaged,” he says and the declaration sits there like a trial sentence. Patrick doesn’t remove his hand, preventing David from pulling away. 

“Oh?” It comes out reedy and frightened, and David hasn’t felt like this since Sebastian fucking Raine. 

“To a girl.” 

“Yeah, got that.” As if he needed the clarification. David knows he’s being unfair, they literally only _ just _ kissed for the first time last night and Patrick _ is _ in the middle of a family crisis, so David resolves to listen quietly, even if the fingernails of his free hand are currently digging into his acid wash jeans. 

Patrick shifts in his seat again and inhales deeply. “Her name is Rachel. We got together in high school. She was my best friend, but as we got older and things got more serious, I found myself starting to pull away. We broke up. We got back together. We broke up again. We got back together. Again.” He blows out a breath. “Over and over, I didn’t know why I couldn’t make it work. We were getting pressure from people around us. We’d been dating for so long, marriage just seemed like the next step. The done thing.” He shrugs. “I proposed and had my first panic attack later that night.” 

David doesn’t realize it, but he’s started running his thumb back and forth on Patrick’s jeans. He has so many questions - _ How long were you engaged? How did it end? Why Schitt’s Creek of all the fucking places? _ \- but he doesn’t want to interrupt. 

“It wasn’t until we were at a family dinner, both of ours, and Rachel’s mom jokingly mentioned grandchildren - ”

“That’s not funny,” David can’t help but blurt and Patrick smiles. 

“Apparently I didn’t think so either. That was when I had my second panic attack. I’m not opposed to kids, per se. Never really thought about it, but I realized that I’d kept moving forward to the next step because I always thought I had an out.” He shakes his head and swallows hard. “You can’t have an out with kids.”

David knows this. Despite the relatively short amount of time they’ve known each other, David knows that if Patrick did become a father, he’d give it his all. Even with a woman he didn’t want to be with in the first place. 

“I finally had to get away. I broke up with Rachel that night, packed my bags, and got in the car the next morning. I honestly didn’t even know which direction I was going, but eventually Schitt’s Creek popped up on google maps. Seemed like the kind of place I deserved to be,” he says a little ruefully. And regretfully, squeezing David’s hand again. “I found Ray’s ad on Craigslist while stopped at a gas station and had a job and a room that night.” 

David admires the courage that took - to just uproot your life because you knew it wasn’t working. Patrick might see it as running away, but David sees it as running _ to _ something. 

_ You, _ the more whimsical part of his brain supplies while the practical part snaps, _ Stop that. _Instead, he asks, “And your parents…?” 

“I told them where I was and that I was staying for a bit. They didn’t understand, but they were supportive. They’ve always wanted me to be happy and I think - ” he stops and licks his lips, throat working - “I hope they knew how unhappy I was then. We didn’t talk much in the beginning. I honestly just didn’t know what to say because I was still - working it out for myself, you know?” He glances over and David nods. 

_ “Um, I’ve never done that before. With a guy.” _

“I do know,” he murmurs, and he’s sure the memory of last night is making his face do all sorts of stupidly fond things. Then Patrick smiles for the first time in what seems like far too long. 

“The store actually helped a lot. Gave us something nice to talk about. Exciting. They’re proud of me, of us, I know they are.” The smile doesn’t last long, though. “My parents are good people, David, but I just - ”

“Patrick, you don’t have to explain.” 

“I do. I’m not ashamed, I’m just... ” 

“Scared,” he breathes and, after a loaded moment, Patrick nods. 

“Yeah. I am. My parents know who you are, but they know you as - ”

“Your business partner,” he supplies, and it makes sense. They only just potentially became something more last night. 

“And I can’t help but think that this could change everything, and with Dad in the hospital now, I just - ” he’s working himself up again and, before David even registers doing it, he’s taking Patrick’s hand and pressing a firm kiss to his knuckles. 

“Hey, hey, breathe,” he gently murmurs. “It’s okay. We don’t need to drop all of the bombs at once. For now… let’s not give your dad another heart attack. I can be - I can just be your business partner. Your business partner who happens to be your friend.” 

_ Friend_. This time, it doesn’t cause him heart palpitations. 

“I could use a friend,” Patrick quietly replies, pulling their hands back over the console and pressing them to his chest, over his rapidly beating heart. “You’re more than that to me, though. You know that, right?” he says, eyes wide with earnestness. “It’s important you know.” 

Now it’s David’s turn to swallow hard. _ Christ, what is this man doing to him? _“I know.” 

They stare at each other for a brief moment, before safety necessitates Patrick return his focus to the road, and David clears his throat, trying to process all that he’s just unloaded on him. 

Patrick was engaged. 

Patrick’s parents don’t know he’s gay. 

Patrick’s father may be dying. 

When he blurted out, ‘I’m coming with you’ an hour ago, this is not quite what he thought he was signing up for, but the fact that he _ still _wouldn’t rather be anywhere else is a realization that is far beyond the limited scope of his emotional capacity to handle at the moment. He’ll deal with it when alone with space to pace and preferably an alcoholic beverage in hand. For now, though, there’s still a whole lot of road between them and the charade they’ll have to play, and he’ll be damned if they spend it in complete silence. 

“Having said all that, though,” he begins, grabbing his phone from his pocket once more and fiddling with the buttons on the dash until he finds the bluetooth pairing function. Frankly, he’s impressed Patrick’s car is new enough to have one, but he’ll use any means necessary to distract the man at his side. “This is probably the most important question I’ll ask you,” he says seriously. “In fact, our entire business-partner-and-definitely-not-anything-more relationship hinges on your answer.” 

He pulls up his iTunes and looks intently at Patrick’s adorably wary expression. 

“Patrick Brewer,” he inhales deeply, “how do you feel about Mariah Carey?”


	2. Chapter 2

_ Rainbow _ is winding down as they pull into the hospital’s parking lot and, despite the fact that they skipped _ Merry Christmas _ (heartbreakingly) as well as all of the sadder songs in Mariah’s catalogue, David is impressed that they made it through six albums, even with his constant replays of her bigger hits. (_Fantasy _ warranted three. _ One Sweet Day_? Not so much.) 

The hospital is in the next town over from where Patrick’s parents live and, while it’s leaps and bounds ahead of Elmdale’s walk-in clinic, it pales in comparison to, say, New York-Presbyterian. He wants to make sure Patrick’s dad is getting the appropriate treatment (in his old life, he could have had America’s finest heart surgeon on a jet within the hour), but he doesn’t want to worry Patrick anymore than he already is. 

“Solid hospital,” he murmurs and promptly rolls his eyes. _ Solid hospital? What the fuck is that? _

“I was born here,” Patrick replies and David’s head turns to him so quickly, he cricks his neck. 

“You were?” 

Patrick nods as he turns the car off and pulls the keys from the ignition. “Maternity. Third floor.” 

“Oh,” he says somewhat dumbly. The idea is so quaint that it seems like something you only see in movies. He feels like he should shake someone’s hand for successfully delivering the man next to him into the world. Maybe buy flowers or something to show his appreciation. 

He gets a hand on the door handle and pops it open, but Patrick doesn’t move from his seat. David expected him to hop out of the car immediately, but he remains staring at the wheel, keys in a white-knuckle grip, as he slowly breathes in and out. 

“You okay?” he asks, which is idiotic, because of course he’s not. 

Patrick nods and licks his lips, but continues staring at the wheel. “I just… need to hold your hand for a second.”

“Oh,” David says again, arm already moving to land palm up on the console. Patrick grips it firmly. “You can hold my hand any time you want,” he replies, knowing though that they can’t. 

When they step out of this car, they are business partners only. When they step out of this car, Patrick is going to be the dutiful son supporting his mother and father instead of what he probably really wants to be, which is a little boy falling to pieces. David can see the muscle in his jaw jumping so he leans over and presses a soft kiss there, listening to Patrick inhale sharply. 

“Take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Patrick turns his head and David is still so close that their noses bump. “Thank you,” he whispers, eyes flicking down to David’s lips before darting around the parking to see if anyone is watching. 

_ “I’m not ashamed,” _ he had said and David believed him - _ believes _ him - but it still stings a bit. It still feels like too many past relationships who wanted him behind closed doors only. 

When Patrick turns back, he looks a little guilty. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” David murmurs, glancing around as well at the empty parking lot. “One more for the road?” 

“God yeah,” Patrick breathes, leaning forward and pressing their lips together so hard, David almost grunts in pain. There’s nothing soft and sweet about this, like last night, or even rushed and passionate like he initially expected them to be today. No, this kiss is something else: it’s hard and sad and desperate and demanding. It’s like Patrick is drowning and he’s trying to get one last gasp of air. It says, _ Thank you, I need you, I miss this already, Don’t leave me, I can’t do this, Please stay, Please help me, _along with a thousand other things. 

They break apart and pant for breath, staring at each other. The fingers of David’s free hand have somehow wound their way into Patrick’s short hair, cupping the back of his head. 

“You are…” but Patrick trails off and shakes his head, as if a word for David has not yet been invented. He’s had exes do that to him before, but the words they were searching for were never intended to be kind. 

David raises Patrick’s hands to his lips. “Here for you,” he finishes. “All of you.” 

Patrick nods and hastily wipes at his eyes. David reaches over and catches a tear he missed, kisses his hand one more time, before reaching for the door once more.

“Let’s go find your mom.” 

The walk to the front is short, but the distance between them widens. David takes a step back, letting Patrick take the lead as they head through the sliding doors. The kind-looking woman at the front desk directs them towards the ICU with an expression that is (thankfully) devoid of pity. Had it not been, David’s not sure he would have been able to hold his tongue. He’s feeling particularly protective at the moment. 

But then what she said registers and his steps slow. 

ICU._ Shit. _

Shaking his head, he realizes that Patrick has already made it to the elevators and is just now realizing David is not with him anymore. 

“I’m here,” he calls, jogging to catch up (he _ jogs _ for Patrick, for fuck’s sake) and reaching for his hand, before belatedly realizing he shouldn’t and aborting halfway through. 

He winces and meets Patrick’s gaze, and it’s nothing but fond if regretful. 

“It’s fine,” he says to Patrick’s unspoken apology. “It’s not for forever.”

“No,” Patrick replies, almost vehemently, like a promise. “It’s not.” 

The elevator doors ding open and Patrick hits the button for the fifth floor. David settles in beside him, standing closer than strictly necessary if only so he can rub his hand across his back between his shoulder blades, feeling the steady pound of his heart. 

Patrick watches the floors slowly tick by before turning to David. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says with such sincerity that David nearly swoons. 

“I am, too,” he replies, and he means it. More than he expected to. Family. Feelings. They aren’t his usual brand of drink, but here he is, tossing it back straight. 

The doors slide open with another ding and Patrick leads the way out. They have to check in at a security desk to get visitor wristbands and that’s when David learns that Patrick’s father’s name is Clint. He wishes he had thought to ask more about the people that made the man beside him; the man that David is rapidly realizing is one of the best he’s ever met. But he can’t think more on that missed opportunity because they’re being shown towards a waiting room and, before David can even begin to study the people stressing out within its walls, Patrick is calling out, “Mom!” and running from his side.

Mrs. Brewer is both exactly what David expected her to be and nothing at all like what he predicted. 

Short with a brunette bob, she has Patrick’s kind eyes (exhausted and red-rimmed though they are) and a strength that’s not to be underestimated if the way she’s hugging her son is any indication. 

David hangs back, shoves his hands into his pockets, and rocks back on his heels as he stares at the ground. He can’t hear what they’re saying but he thinks “my sweet boy” is murmured low at one point. In the middle of beeping machines and flashing alarms and crying family members, he suddenly wishes he was wearing something that didn’t make him stand out quite so much. 

“David?” 

He startles at the sound of his name to find Mrs. Brewer holding out her left hand and beckoning him over. Her right is still firmly gripping Patrick, who’s facing away and attempting to collect himself if his shaking shoulders are anything to go by. David wants nothing more than to go to him, to wrap his arms around him from behind and bury his nose in his neck. Instead, David reaches out and allows this woman, this stranger, this mother of the guy he’s rapidly falling for, to tug him into a hug. 

He flounders for a moment, arms hovering unsure at his sides, before he reaches up and wraps them around her back. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says because it’s the only thing he thinks of, despite the fact that it sounds woefully inadequate even to his own ears, but she seems to appreciate it, giving him one more squeeze before letting go. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Despite what probably everyone thinks, David is actually good in a crisis. A real one. Just ask Alexis and the emergency visa clerk at the Haitian embassy.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “I’m sure Patrick could use a tea after the drive. Have you eaten?”

He glances over at the man in question to find him clearing his throat and biting his lower lip to keep it from wobbling again. “You sure?” Patrick asks and David nods. 

“Of course.” He knows mother and son would probably like a moment alone together. 

“I’m fine,” Mrs. Brewer responds, but that finally seems to spur Patrick into action. 

“A tea for her, too, please.” 

“You got it,” he replies before Mrs. Brewer can argue. He smiles and squeezes her shoulder, offering a nod to Patrick as well before turning and heading back towards the helpful woman at the desk and hoping she can point him in the direction of the cafeteria. 

Turns out there’s a coffee cart just outside of the ICU and he thanks the nurse as his phone vibrates in his pocket. Shit, he probably should have texted Stevie by now. Sure enough, it’s her name on the screen. 

**[Stevie]**   
**i heard about patrick’s dad. **

Sighing, he types out a quick reply as he gets in line for the coffee cart behind a doctor who looks like she’s gotten too little sleep and a nurse who’s vibrating so much, he probably doesn’t need the extra espresso. 

** _Yeah. Will you do me a favor and check in on the store when your… situation at the motel calms down? _ **

Her response is quick: 

**[Stevie]**   
**wut makes you think i’m not already there?**

Well that makes him pause. 

** _… are you? _ **

She sends back a selfie flipping him off from behind the cash with Alexis throwing up a peace sign behind her.

**[Stevie]**  
**ur dad heard about patrick too. he’s handling the motel. and ur mom.**

And David doesn’t think he’s ever loved his father more, but before he can say something far more sentimental than he’d like that his sister will never let him live down, another text from Stevie comes through: 

**[Stevie]**   
**so last night went well?**

He rolls his eyes. 

** _I know Alexis told you we kissed. _ **

**[Stevie]**   
**she did. and we’re gonna have a chat about y i wasn’t ur first call. **

He orders the tea and a macchiato for himself and waits for the drinks, watching the jittery nurse knock back a double espresso. 

** _I was going to swing by the office, but shit hit the fan. _ **

**[Stevie]**   
**i know. don’t worry about the store. it’s in good hands. alexis hasn’t even been trying the lip balm. she’s on her best behavior. **

** _I owe you one. _ **

And he does. But her reply is nearly enough to make him emotional:

**[Stevie]**   
**nah. this one’s on the house. **

Closing his eyes to gather himself, he quickly types out their version of a ‘thank you’ anyway: (**_There is wine in your future, Stevie Budd_**) before putting the cups into a cardboard carrier.

He doubts Patrick ate anything before coming over to the motel, so he gets back in the meager line to pick up a blueberry muffin for him and a croissant for Mrs. Brewer. Croissants are a safe bet. She probably won’t eat it anyway, but he can try. He doesn’t know how she takes her tea either so he grabs a couple of packets of sugar and sweetener each, along with some cups of cream. Gathering all of his purchases, he makes his way back to the ICU, attempting to flash his wristband for the nurse at the desk and nearly upending the veritable baked good-Tower of Pisa he has going on. 

She waves him on through with a small smile, and he heads to the waiting room to find it much the same, except this time, Patrick is sitting in a chair next to his mom with his arm around her shoulders, absentmindedly rubbing his hand up and down her back. 

“Hey,” he murmurs when he gets close, handing Patrick the bag with the muffin in it. 

“What’s all this?” 

“I know for a fact you didn’t eat this morning because you never made it to the cafe, so here.” He turns to Mrs. Brewer then and hands her the bag with the croissant. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but I know I get hangry when my blood sugar gets too low, which is not a pretty sight, and maybe you do too so better safe than sorry,” he rambles, passing over her tea as well and fumbling with the plethora of sugar and cream packets. “I wasn’t sure how you took it oh - I forgot a stirrer! Be right back.” 

“David,” Mrs. Brewer stops him from whirling around with a gentle hand on his arm. “I just take a bit of cream. I don’t need a stirrer,” she says, lips pressing together like she’s trying to hide a smile. “But thank you.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, at a loss now that he doesn’t have a job to do and unclear where to sit. He can’t just hover like a helicopter parent. 

With a nod of his head, Patrick indicates the seat on his other side. David folds himself into it, clutching his macchiato to his chest and watching with satisfaction as Patrick breaks a piece of muffin off and pops it in his mouth, before pulling another section free and handing it to David.

“That’s for you,” David argues, but Patrick only holds it out further, practically bumping it into David’s nose. 

“You get hangry.” 

David rolls his eyes, but takes the proffered baked good, trying not to groan when he all but stuffs it in his mouth. He puts his hand on the seat next to him and his pinky brushes the outside of Patrick’s thigh. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s not a move he regrets. Especially when Patrick moves his leg, trapping David’s hand beneath it. 

He breathes out. Slowly. They can do this. 

_ He _ can do this. 

… Right?

xxxxxx

Over the course of the next hour, David learns all sorts of new terms: Angioplasty. Catheter. Stent. Restenosis. He learns that Mr. Brewer had been having pains in his left arm the evening before, but didn’t tell his wife until the morning because, as Mrs. Brewer said, “He’s a stupid, stupid man,” when he collapsed in the middle of making breakfast. He learns that, though the procedure is relatively routine, the risks are greater after a heart attack than they would have been under different circumstances. 

Angioplasty can take anywhere from 30 minutes to several hours. They’ve been sitting there for 83 minutes so far and the tension is thick. Despite the fact that he’s lost feeling in his hand, David doesn’t dare ask Patrick to move his leg. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, doing some meditative breathing that Trudie Styler taught him when Sting was playing the Garden. His thumb starts rubbing against Patrick’s jeans and Patrick clears his throat, gently bumping his shoulder against David’s in silent thanks. 

With his free hand, he pulls out his phone and starts making a checklist of things he’ll need to do at the store when they return, whenever that may be. It’s hard to type with just his left thumb so Patrick lifts his leg and, despite the fact that David would have stayed like that all day, it is nice to get blood flowing back into his fingers. He may need to talk Stevie through fulfilling the online orders, but the vendor agreements can wait a few days. He’ll email the clients and let them know that there’s been a family emergency. Debbie and her honey and Ben and his wooden cutlery collection will surely understand. 

Peeking over, he sees that Patrick has also pulled out his phone, and David is glad he has something to distract him - until he gets a look at what exactly it is that he’s reading: 

**Angioplasty and Stents: Facts on Complications and Recovery**

Without thinking, he reaches over and takes the phone, shoving it in his pocket and going back to his list without missing a beat. 

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks lowly, and David raises his eyebrows but doesn’t look at him. 

“What are_ you _ doing?” he retorts. 

Patrick shifts in his seat, sounding defensive yet resigned when he mutters, “I like to be prepared.” 

“You don’t need to see that,” he says, and he can practically feel Patrick bristle beside him.

“David - ”

“Your mother doesn’t need to see that,” he murmurs pointedly, finally looking up. 

Patrick pales and glances to his other side to see his Mom worrying her wedding ring. David isn’t one hundred percent sure she saw the article, but at the angle Patrick was holding his phone, it would have been easy enough to read if she just looked over. 

David knows he’s won when Patrick bows his head and doesn’t ask for the phone back. 

“Talk to me,” Mrs. Brewer suddenly blurts. “Tell me how the store is doing.”

Oh she definitely saw. 

With a sigh, David glances at his partner (in business only), unclear on how much he’s shared with his parents. Patrick meets his gaze and raises his eyebrows as if to ask, _ Me or you? _ and David’s sure that if forced to describe what his answering expression looks like, only _ incredulous _ would come to mind. 

Smirking softly, Patrick clears his throat and turns to his mother once more, squeezing his fingers where they’re clasped in his lap. 

“It’s doing well. We had to stock a lot of product up front, but our launch was really successful and we should be in the black starting next month.”

David blushes at ‘we.’ 

“That’s good,” Mrs. Brewer says, nodding her head, but her expression is troubled. Almost guilty. Perhaps she and her husband didn’t think their son jumping into a new business so soon after running away from his past was a good idea. 

David honestly wouldn’t blame them, now that he knows what exactly Patrick was running from. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and David can tell he’s trying hard not to sound defensive. He knows that tone. He’s utilized it enough himself. 

“We’ll have to send you a gift basket,” he offers, if only to break the thick tension seeping back in. 

“That would be lovely, David,” Mrs. Brewer replies. “We’d like that.” 

Her breath hitches on ‘we’ too. David pretends he doesn’t notice. 

A doctor comes out a minute later and scans over the waiting room. Patrick tenses next to him, but doesn’t stand. 

“It’s not his doctor,” he murmurs, but how does Patrick know that? Perhaps David missed an update while he was out getting tea. 

Another family on the other side of the room stands, a man no older than his own father wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as a young man, clearly his son, clasps his shoulder. 

It’s not good news. 

David watches as the older man almost folds in on himself, nearly crumpling to the ground before his son maneuvers him into a chair. The doctor is still talking in low, placating tones but David feels sick. He shouldn’t be seeing this. None of them should. He wants to sink into his chair and pull his sweater up over his ears, blocking out the world. And he’s so consumed with trying to shrink, to make himself invisible, that he doesn’t notice Patrick has gone utterly still beside him. Utterly still, that is, except for the rapid (too rapid) rise and fall of his chest. 

The older man is quietly crying into his hands and his son is still listening to the doctor, even as silent tears track down his face. 

David is not meant to be in these situations. He doesn’t know what to do, how to be. He’d rather face off with a terrorist for Alexis’ freedom than deal with raw, unfiltered, _ human _emotion. 

“Bathroom,” Patrick suddenly mutters and it comes out strangled, but he’s up and stalking down the hall before David can even process what’s happening. 

Mrs. Brewer watches him go with heartbreak on her face, but she makes no move to follow. David opens his mouth, but what the flying fuck is he supposed to say? He has no business offering someone else comfort. 

But this isn’t just someone. 

It’s Patrick. 

He’s on his feet and following before he can talk himself out of it. Turning the corner, the door to the bathroom is just shutting so David barrels through it just in time to watch Patrick all but collapse into a stall and dry heave into the toilet. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, hurrying over and standing there for a second, completely at a loss. 

Patrick’s hands shakily hold onto the ceramic as sweat beads at his temple. Glancing around, David grabs a paper towel and wets it with cold water, returning to the stall and easing himself down on the balls of his feet (because there’s no way in hell his jeans are touching the floor) and places the cloth on the back of Patrick’s neck, just like Adelina used to do when he was little and not feeling well. 

Patrick moans and heaves again, and David winces in sympathy. Good thing he didn’t eat more than the muffin. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs, holding the paper towel in place and pressing a kiss to Patrick’s head. 

Patrick groans again and rests his forehead on his arm, reaching a trembling hand up to flush the toilet despite the fact that he didn’t throw anything up. He collapses with his back against the wall, and David can’t tell if the moisture on his (incredibly pale) face is sweat or tears. 

“Can you stand?” he asks, holding a hand out, and Patrick nods. 

“I think so,” he manages, but he’s still breathing entirely too quickly. 

David is intimately familiar with panic attacks. He knows one when he sees one. 

“Patrick, I need you to breathe for me.” 

“I am,” Patrick replies, but it’s practically a gasp. 

“No, you’re not, honey,” he says, gently taking Patrick’s flushed face in his hands and forcing their eyes to meet. “Nice and slow. With me.” He slowly inhales and runs his thumbs across Patrick’s cheekbones as he follows suit, before exhaling. “That’s it. Again, with me.” 

Someone else comes in and they both freeze, before David quickly closes the stall door, giving them some semblance of privacy. The interruption has regressed whatever progress David had made with Patrick’s breathing so, making an executive decision, he gently takes Patrick’s elbow and helps him up, before getting an arm around his waist and guiding him out of the bathroom. Whoever had come in is at the urinal with his back to the room so they’re able to make their exit with minimal fuss (and nary an odd look). Patrick doesn’t need anything else to be self-conscious about, David thinks, as he guides them down the hall and around the corner to a secluded part of the hospital. 

Leaning Patrick up against the wall, he cups his face in his hands again, meeting his semi-frantic gaze. “Nice and slow,” he repeats. 

Patrick nods, but it’s desperate; aching not to disappoint, even as his body sways like a Jenga tower about to fall apart. Leaning in, David noses along his jaw before burying his face in his neck as Patrick grips his back, twisting his sweater in his fingers. It’s not sexual in the slightest; if anything, it’s intimate. Which is a whole new concept for David. He’s not usually the one holding things together. 

“Breathe, honey,” he whispers, running his hands up and down Patrick’s trembling back. “That’s it.” 

Patrick’s inhalations eventually slow and his shaking subsides. David knows he should get some sugar into him, or at least some water, because his adrenaline levels are going to plummet, leaving him feeling wrecked. 

“You’re doing so well,” he says, careful not to sound condescending. Patrick still hasn’t let go of his sweater, but he can’t say he’s mad about it. He cups the back of Patrick’s neck, fingers teasing the hair at his nape. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out after a moment, but David just shakes his head, burying his nose in the crook of his neck again. 

“Nope. You don’t need to hold it together right now. Not in front of me.” David kisses his temple and cups the back of his head. “I just - didn’t want you to hyperventilate and pass out. I know we’re already in the ICU, but I’ve been slacking on my upper body routine. Carrying you is out of the question.” 

Patrick huffs out a breath and it may be a laugh, so David is going to take it as the victory it is. 

“Okay?” he breathes, and Patrick nods, eyes glancing down at his lips, before tentatively leaning in. 

David ignores the fucking fireworks in his chest when their lips connect. It’s relatively quick and certainly chaste - just a press and a hold as if to say _ Thank you. _ Given that they’re ‘not doing this,’ David hangs onto every second of it he can. 

“We should get back,” Patrick murmurs. “My mom - ”

“Will understand,” David interrupts. “You don’t have to be buttoned-up all the time, you know.” He gently flicks one of the plastic circles at the top of Patrick’s chest, earning him a shy smile. “This is… a lot. You’re allowed to let it be a lot.” 

Patrick pulls further away to look in his face, gaze flitting over every feature. “Thank you, David,” he breathes, and David knows he means so much more than just for following him. 

He takes Patrick’s hand and presses a kiss on the back of his knuckles. “Ready to go back?” 

He nods, and David watches his brow crease in hurt as he slowly loosens his grip on David’s hand. If the pain currently cleaving his chest in two is any indication, David knows the feeling. He lets his hand be dropped though, and they both stare at their fingers, inches yet miles apart. 

“Let’s go,” David murmurs, because if he doesn’t, he’ll let the moment stretch longer than it should. Forever, maybe. (_You _ ** _just_ ** _ kissed. Lock it up, Rose_.)

He lets Patrick take the lead, winding their way down the hall back towards the waiting room. Mrs. Brewer stands as soon as she sees them, hurrying over and wrapping her arms around her son. 

“Sorry,” David hears him murmur, but Mrs. Brewer is already shaking her head. 

“Don’t be, sweet boy.” She pulls away and gives David a grateful smile over Patrick’s shoulder before leading him back to the chairs they’ve come to think of as ‘theirs.’ 

This is not like the time Alexis was in Chile, and David spent his time bullet-journaling, knowing that they had flown in their own surgeon from Boston. 

This is so much worse. 

He’s about to offer to get more tea (because tea fixes everything, apparently) but then Patrick is blurting, “Oh God,” before David can really register what’s happening. 

Patrick shoots to his feet just as David catches a glimpse of a doctor in scrubs coming out to greet them. He stands too, so close to Patrick that he’s practically plastered against his back. It’s fine. Mrs. Brewer is standing in front of them. She won’t see. 

“Mrs. Brewer, your husband is out of surgery. It went very well,” the doctor says, and thank God David is pressed so close because Patrick practically sags back against him, so hard that David has to put a hand on his hip to keep them both from toppling over. He recovers quickly, though, putting an arm around his mom’s shoulders and squeezing. 

David gives the smiling doctor a grateful grin in return, too happy to be concerned about whether or not he belongs in this moment. 

“We’re going to keep him overnight to monitor his progress. Watch his blood pressure. If all continues the way it is, he should be heading home tomorrow.” They all exhale a collective breath as the doctor continues, “In the meantime, it might be nice for him to have some things from home - robe, slippers, toothbrush, etcetera. Anything to make him more comfortable.” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Brewer says, even as happy tears slip down her face. “Will do.” 

“As soon as we move him to recovery, we’ll bring you back to see him.” With that, the doctor disappears through the swinging doors to the surgical wing and Patrick turns, pulling his mother into his chest as she muffles a wet laugh into his shirt. He holds her tight, but his eyes are on David, reaching out with the hand that’s not holding his mother’s back and gripping David’s tightly. 

“Thank you,” he mouths and David nods, swallowing thickly. He’s never been so relieved for a relative stranger before in his life. Not even when they saved that girl dangling from the balcony after she slipped in Ibiza. 

Mrs. Brewer pulls away and hastily wipes at her eyes. “I should go get him some stuff.” 

“Mom, I’ll do it,” Patrick says, but David interrupts. _ Finally, a purpose. _

“Here, give me your keys. I’ll get it all. Just tell me where it is.”

Both Patrick and Mrs. Brewer stare at him for a moment. 

“What?” David says, suddenly self-conscious. “The doctor said he’d be in recovery soon. You’ll want to be here for that.” 

Mrs. Brewer is looking at him fondly, but Patrick just looks terrified at the prospect of being left alone with his mother. David doesn’t know why; she’s lovely. 

But then David watches him rub his sweaty palms on his jeans before shoving his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching in a classic defensive position, and perhaps Patrick is afraid that his mom will see everything he’s trying to hide. Everything he’s keeping at bay. Everything he and David said they’d pretend they weren’t. 

_ But what are they? _

“David, that’s very sweet of you,” Mrs. Brewer says. “I’ll text you a quick list, if that’s all right?” 

“Absolutely,” he says, even as Patrick pulls him aside. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. 

“Patrick, when I said I wanted to come, it wasn’t so I could sit around and not be useful.” He holds his hand out and makes a ‘gimme’ gesture with his fingers. “Let me be useful.” 

Patrick stares at him for a moment, before shaking his head with a small smile and digging the keys from his pocket. David's phone chimes a moment later and he pulls it out to find a text from Mrs. Brewer with a small list and succinct directions on where to find things in a home he’s never been to before. 

“Wait - my mother has your number?” 

David hums. “I texted her from the car.” He glances up to find Patrick staring at him with an expression he can’t define, which, frankly, is annoying. “I didn’t want her to think I was letting you be an irresponsible driver.” 

Mrs. Brewer interrupts before Patrick can reply. “I apologize for the state of the house,” she begins, but David is already waving her off.

“Please, you should have seen mine after our annual Oscar-watch party. No apology necessary, Mrs. Brewer.” 

“Marcy, dear,” she replies and David pauses. 

Oh. Marcy. 

That’s a nice name. 

“Marcy,” he quietly repeats, a little shyly, before clearing his throat and holding up the keys. “Back in a bit.” 

He starts down the hall because if he doesn’t escape Patrick’s gaze, he’s not sure he’ll ever leave, and Mr. Brewer needs his bathrobe. 

His phone chimes again and Patrick’s name lights up the screen. He frowns and turns around to find Patrick looking at him with a raised eyebrow in the middle of the hallway. He opens the message:

**[Patrick]**   
**Thought the address might be helpful: 206 Hollyhock St. **

He looks up. “Ha, ha.” 

Patrick smirks, but it softens as they stare at each other. David breaks his gaze and looks down at his phone once more, typing out a quick response.

** _I promise not to root through your childhood bedroom. _ **

**[Patrick]**   
**I wish you would. **

David’s eyebrows hit his hairline and he smiles a little coyly. Two can play at that game.** _ Next time. _ **

Which is terrifying because it implies there_ will _ be a next time. Preferably, though, under significantly better circumstances. 

With one last glance, he turns and continues out of the ICU, back into the elevator, through the lobby, and into the overcast day. He unlocks Patrick’s car as he types the address into google maps. Dropping his phone into the cupholder, he adjusts the driver’s seat and mirrors, inhaling deeply and letting out a slow exhale. He can do this. 

It’s just a small list. A small list of household things. Of household things belonging to the sick father of the man he kissed for the first time last night and fucking fireworks exploded behind his eyes. 

Everything’s _ fine. _

_ “Take a right and continue on to Hume Street_,_” _his phone loudly instructs, and he jumps enough to accidentally honk the horn. 

“Jesus Christ.” He presses the tips of his fingers against his temples and wills his heart to calm down, praying that Patrick didn’t somehow find a window and witness that fiasco. 

Putting the car in gear, he pulls out of the parking lot, turning onto Hume Street before the GPS can bark at him again. It’s not a long drive - maybe 20 minutes to the next town over - and the streets are narrow and tree-lined. _ Quaint, _is the word that comes to mind. It’s perhaps what Schitt’s Creek could be if the town had a budget for landscaping and anyone actually, you know, gave a damn. All in all, it’s the kind of place David used to fly over on his way from one major hub to another. 

Alexis was right - he does live in the mountains, but by a lake as well. The town is nestled in between the base of a small range that benefits from winter tourists in the nearby resorts for a ski, and the bay which sees summer visitors renting pontoons and doing in tubes what David would require a lot of tequila to accomplish. 

Google maps brings him to Patrick’s house entirely too quickly and yet not quickly enough, and David pulls into the driveway, staring for a moment at the place Patrick called ‘home’ his whole life. Frankly, it’s adorable, with a large wraparound porch complete with swing and gas lamps on either side of the front door, winking at him in welcome. The house is cream, but the shudders are navy blue, because of course they are. 

He has a moment of panic that Marcy didn’t give him a key, but then he assumes this is the kind of neighborhood where people leave their doors unlocked. If not, he’s going to have to bust out some old moves from his days of breaking out Alexis. There’s a drainpipe by a window on the side of the house that looks sturdy enough. 

He gets out of the car and inhales deeply, the clean, fresh air making his lungs feel like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day. He walks up the porch steps, admiring the fact that, even though Patrick hasn’t lived here in years, there’s still a baseball bat propped up in the corner. 

Sure enough, the door is unlocked, and he smiles softly as he sees a small, hand-painted sign next to it that reads “The Brewers,” before heading inside. It smells like cinnamon and pine and it makes David want to curl up in front of the brick fireplace in the corner with a cup of tea and a blanket, despite the fact that it’s summer. 

“Right,” he murmurs, pulling out his phone and forcing himself not to snoop. He’ll be back tonight; he can examine all of the framed photographs of Patrick’s childhood then. He opens the list and knows he’ll find most of this in the master bedroom (as Marcy had so helpfully labeled in her text, along with directions: _ second floor, end of the hall on the right_). 

The foyer has a set of hooks that house coats for the cooler weather and shoes have been neatly lined up by the wall. They all belong to Marcy and Clint now, but David can imagine a pair of cleats or those mountaineering shoes Patrick insists on wearing right there alongside them. There’s a staircase leading to the second floor, which he’ll head to in a second, but he pokes his head into the living room, following the sound of low talking to discover the television had been left on a cable news channel. He finds the remote and turns it off, taking a moment to glance around. The decor is not what he would have chosen: too country chic, too many greens and blues, not enough sand and stone. But it works. 

Much like Patrick himself. 

There’s a cold cup of tea on the table next to the couch, Marcy’s probably, and David continues down the hall into the kitchen, remembering the circumstances of Mr. Brewer’s heart attack (_collapsed while making breakfast_). Sure enough, the kitchen is a mess - there’s a pan of scrambled eggs scattered about and a jar of preserves smashed on the floor. Cold sausages are in a pan on the stove, but at least someone had the thought to turn the burner off. 

He grabs the nearest towel and gets the eggs back in the pan before dumping it unceremoniously in the sink. The preserves, however, are another matter. That will take more than just a dish cloth. Resolving to come back and take care of this, he leaves the dirty towel bunched up on the counter and makes his way back down the hall towards the stairs. 

He feels like a voyeur. He shouldn’t be here, in Patrick’s parents’ house, without any of them present, but Marcy wasn’t about to leave her husband’s side and Patrick wasn’t about to leave his mother’s, so… here he is. David Rose. No one’s first choice for a catastrophe. His penchant for panic is seen by some as a liability, but - 

He’s not panicking now. 

He bypasses the other two rooms upstairs, despite the fact that he _ knows _ one of them is Patrick’s and he’s just dying to get inside. He has a job and he’s going to do it well, so he makes his way down the hall and to the last room on the right, gently shouldering open the door to find a neatly made queen size bed covered with a tasteful quilt - the kind of colorful patchwork they might even sell in the store one day. David takes great delight in knowing that Patrick got his meticulously neat habits from his parents. 

Pulling out his phone, he brings up Marcy’s text and starts on the list, grabbing a small bag from the top shelf of the closet (separated into his and hers) per her instructions. The slippers go in first (_he always leaves them side-by-side under the bench at the foot of the bed_), followed by the dark blue, terry-cloth robe (_it’ll be hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door_), a stick of deodorant (_in the medicine cabinet_), and a toothbrush _(it’s the red one in the holder by the sink_). Glancing around, he grabs some saline solution drops in case Marcy’s eyes dry out (unlikely, with the crying, but still helpful) as well as some moisturizer (which will clearly be replaced with something from the store post-haste), before heading back into the bedroom. There’s a book on the bedside table and, judging by the dark colors and font alone, David guesses it’s a spy novel most likely belonging to Mr. Brewer (though he wouldn’t put it past Marcy to be into that). He grabs that, too, because hospitals are boring, before heading back downstairs with his wares. 

Letting out a slow breath, he realizes he’s seen more of the Brewers’ bedroom than he has of their son’s and _ that _ is definitely a conversation for another day. 

He should bring back snacks or something; nothing makes you hungry like worry and boredom. Glancing through the door of the kitchen, he spots the broken jar of preserves and wonders if there’s another jar in the fridge. He’s never made anything in life save for a disastrous attempt at enchiladas, but peanut butter and jelly seems like a simple enough thing not to screw up. Sure enough, a jar of strawberry jam is nestled in the door of the refrigerator next to a jar of peanut butter. A simple search of the drawers reveals a loaf of brown bread, and David pulls out four slices, hastily making sandwiches with the correct peanut butter to jam ratio that Adelina used to, before finding some foil and wrapping each up. 

Sandwiches balanced in one arm and bag over the shoulder of his other, he closes the door behind him, but stops, smiling down as he finally notices the welcome mat. 

It’s the hand-woven, eco-friendly one they sell in the store. 

Patrick must have mailed them one. 

Warmth spreads through his chest for this family and this house and this small-town life that he’s been given a glimpse into. Despite Patrick’s misgivings about revealing his more recent personal developments, David knows that this was a house of love. One need only look at the photos on the walls for evidence. 

Reversing the route on google maps (because he was too nervous to actually pay attention the first time), he drives back to the hospital, picking up two more teas on his way back in, prepared to perfection now that he knows how Marcy takes it. 

Neither of them is in the waiting room when he arrives, and David knows they must be in recovery with Mr. Brewer. Balancing everything precariously, he somehow pulls out his phone and fires off a one-handed text to Patrick. 

** _I’m back. _ **

His response is quick: 

**[Patrick]**   
**Be out in a minute.**

David clears his throat and wants to place the bag down as its strap is digging into his shoulder, but he’s got the sandwiches in one hand and the carrier with the tea in the other, and any movement on his part will likely send everything crashing to the linoleum floor. Luckily, Patrick rounds the corner a moment later, looking more tired than he did earlier, but lighter. Brighter. 

If only David could make that crease in his forehead go away. 

“Any change?” he asks and Patrick shakes his head. 

“He’s still asleep. They, uh, they drugged him up pretty good, but he looks - he looks okay. What’s all this?” 

David hands over the carrier. “More tea, and um, I made some PB&Js. Your mom had all of the fixings and it seemed simple enough.” He’s rambling, but Patrick looks like he wants to grab his face and plant one on him, but that would be bad because then everything really _ would _ crash to the floor and David can only handle one mess at a time, thank you very much.

Luckily, Marcy walks out a moment later and David holds up the bag only too eagerly as he clutches the sandwiches and tries not to crush them. 

“I think I got everything. Plus some extras.” 

“You are wonderful,” she says, standing up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. 

David can feel his face flame. “It was nothing.” 

“There are only two sandwiches,” Patrick blurts, not accusingly, but maybe a little panicked? 

David’s wide-eyed gaze darts between two sets of Brewer eyes. “Oh. I’m, um, going to give you both some time. I don’t want to be an imposition.” 

“You’re not an imposition,” Marcy starts, but Patrick is already stepping forward, shaking his head. 

“Not at all.” 

“Look, you’ll be in the room with Mr. Brewer, and I doubt he’ll want a stranger there, plus I should check on the store and make sure Alexis and Stevie haven’t burned it down,” he word vomits. “I won’t be bored. You know me, there’s always a new fall collection to drool over that I can no longer afford.” 

But Patrick is looking at him like he knows just how much bullshit that is. David likes to fall back on his old, shallower excuses when things get too real. 

“Help yourself to anything in the house,” Marcy says, pulling him close again. “I’m glad he has you, David,” she whispers, taking the sandwiches from his hand. 

“Thank you, Mrs. - Marcy.”

He flushes again as Patrick steps forward once more, looking concerned. 

“You sure? You’ll be all right?” 

“I’ll be fine. And you really do want me to call Stevie. God knows how many products Alexis has sampled by now,” he says, despite knowing that Stevie informed him she’d been on her best behavior. 

Patrick looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. That crease is still there and David wants nothing more than to lean in and kiss it away, so badly in fact that he sways forward on the balls of his feet, but he can’t, so he rocks back, exhaling harshly when Patrick comes in for a hug. 

Oh. They can do that. Friends hug. 

“Call me if you need anything,” he murmurs and Patrick nods against his shoulder. 

“Likewise.”

Letting go is like releasing the final McQueen skull sweatshirt in his size at a sample sale, but he does it, fingers twitching at his side as he aches to hold him again. 

“Bye,” he manages, turning on his heel and hoofing it out of there before he can change his mind. 

He feels a little bad about taking Patrick’s car, but Marcy has her own. There hadn’t been room in the ambulance. 

The drive to the house is almost memorized by this point and when he gets back, he takes both of their bags into the house. He’s going to need to change for what he’s about to do and he sure as hell isn’t wearing anything he owns. Figuring Patrick won’t mind, he opens his duffle and pulls out the t-shirt folded on top, an old baseball jersey, pale blue yet faded further with age and softer than cheap cotton has any right to be. It doesn’t clash with his acid wash jeans, so he goes into the bathroom in the hallway (despite the fact that he’s the only one home) and changes out of his leopard print sweater, ignoring the way the shirt smells like Patrick. 

Costume change complete, he heads into the kitchen and surveys the mess, finding an apron hanging on the knob to the pantry that he pulls over his head. The t-shirt may not be worth hundreds of dollars, but he can at least try to protect it from the elements. He grabs as many paper towels as he can find to mop up the preserves but eventually paper isn’t enough, and he has to resort to sacrificing the dish towels to finish the job. 

He recycles the broken jar and tosses the eggs and the sausages into the trash before he begins washing the pans in the sink, remembering to grab Marcy’s abandoned cup of tea from the living room. 

If only his family could see him now.

But no. This isn’t for them. This is for the Brewers, whom David is rapidly realizing he’d just about do anything for. 

Mess disposed of and counters wiped down, he sighs at the sight of the dirty towels, completely at a loss and daunted at the prospect of what comes next. 

Time to call in reinforcements. 

Unfortunately. 

He pulls out his phone and hits Stevie’s name. She spewing words out at him before he can even say, “hello.”

“Yes, your store is still standing. No, Alexis hasn’t used up all of the body milk. No, we didn’t let Roland steal a batch of Mr. Hockley’s tea. Yes, we may have opened a bottle of wine, but consider that payment for services rendered.” 

He shakes his head, not even bothering to digest all of that information. “I need your help.” 

“O-kay,” Stevie replies. “With what?” 

“How do I wash towels?” 

“Oh my God,” she laughs, and then, she snorts.

_ Snorts. _

“What?” he barks defensively, but she’s silent. “Stevie!” 

“Nothing, I just need to document this moment for posterity. Give me a minute.”

“I hate you.” 

“You really don’t.” 

“Stevie,” he wants to whine, but it just comes out tired. It’s been… A Day.

“Right,” she murmurs, probably remembering where exactly he is and, more importantly, why. “What are you washing?” 

“Dish towels. Patrick’s dad broke a jar of fruit something when he collapsed. I tried to get most of it with paper towels, but…” He trails off, but she’s silent. His hackles start to rise again. “Look, are you going to help me or not?” 

“Yes, sorry, sorry, it’s just - ”

“Just what?” he snaps, over it all. 

“Just very sweet, David,” she finishes quietly. 

Oh. 

“Yes, well.” He pulls at a thread on the apron and swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat, constricting his airway like the time he ate something spicy in Marrakech and needed an epipen before the meal was through. 

“You’re gonna have to FaceTime me so I can see what type of washer they have.” 

“Ugh, fine,” he groans, falling back on annoyance, thankful for the out Stevie is giving him. It takes him more than a minute to find the appliances, tucked away in a room he thought was a closet. He switches over to FaceTime and points it at the machine. “Now what?” 

Stevie’s answering eye roll is epic. “Now open the door and put the towels in.” 

He huffs but opens the door, pulling up short at the sight of wet material already occupying the space. “There’s stuff in there.” 

“What kind of stuff?” 

“Um, stuff.” 

“Clothes, towels… delicates?” she asks with glee and he grimaces. 

“I do not want to think about my significant other’s mother’s unmentionables, okay?” 

“Well that’s a mouthful. Not on a first name basis with the in-laws yet, huh?” 

David’s grip on the phone tightens. “Don’t use that word.”

“Why not?” 

“Because they don’t even know he’s gay!” 

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyebrows rise. “Oh,” she says, rather succinctly. 

“Yeah, oh.” 

“So you are…” 

“His friend. His business partner and his friend, helping him through this very difficult time.” 

“David,” she breathes and he groans. 

“Don’t. I can’t handle pity at the moment. Patrick can tell his parents in his own time. It’s his journey. His decision. It’s sheets, by the way.” He puts the phone down with more force than necessary on the top of the washer and opens the door to the dryer, transferring the sheets from one machine to the next. 

“How is he?” comes Stevie’s voice after a moment and David sighs, slamming the door to the dryer shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He had a panic attack earlier.” 

“Oh.” She’s saying that a lot lately. 

“Luckily, his mom didn’t see. Okay, towels are in. Now what?” He picks up the phone again and points it at the washer, really wanting to avoid this topic of conversation. 

“Find the detergent and fabric softener.” It’s in a cabinet above the appliances and he pulls them down. “Great, now open the little drawer. There should be two containers, one for each.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Each lid has a line that tells you where to fill to. Do that and dump them in their containers.” 

“Okay.” He puts the phone down again and measures out the detergent and fabric softener as Stevie continues doling out directions. 

“Once you’ve done that, select the size of the load - small, medium, large - and then hit cold water. Hot water may set the stains. Then start the dryer.”

“Got it.” He slides the little drawer closed and pushes the appropriate buttons before pointing the phone at the dryer and letting Stevie talk him through the right settings for sheets. 

With both machines whirring away, he steps back and admires his handiwork, letting out a long breath, feeling exhausted already. 

“Okay, well. We can cross that one off the bucket list.” 

Stevie snorts again. “Good job, boyfriend.” 

“Oh we’re not doing boyfriend.” His phone buzzes in his hand and his heart rate quickens as Patrick’s name flashes on the screen. “Hang on, Patrick just texted.” He switches over to his messages and his knees nearly buckle when he reads it: 

**[Patrick]**   
**Dad’s awake.**

“Oh shit, his Dad’s awake.” 

“Is he okay?” Stevie asks. 

** _Is he okay?_ **

The ellipsis appears immediately and David waits impatiently for the response. It’s longer than a simple, “Yes,” or “Good,” and his worry is growing with every passing moment. 

**[Patrick]**   
**He’s waxing rhapsodic about the jello. It’s the only thing on the diabetic diet he likes. So yes, I’d say he’s okay. **

David chuckles, eyes tearing in relief for a man he doesn’t know. “He’s good. A fan of jello apparently.” 

“You’ll get along then,” Stevie replies and David switches back to FaceTime solely so he can flip her off. Getting back to the text thread, he types out a quick, but no less meaningful response. 

** _I’m really glad your dad’s okay, Patrick. _ **❤️

He had debated over the emoji, but decided _ fuck it. _ When Patrick’s reply comes, he’s glad he did. 

**[Patrick]**   
**Thank you, David. For everything. ❤️**

Stevie’s voice shakes him from the trance that little heart sent him into. 

“Tell him... he has friends that are thinking about him,” she says quietly, and he can practically see the face she’s pulling at the sentimentality. 

“I will,” he says. 

** _Stevie is thinking about you. _ **

**[Patrick]**   
**Thank her for me. **

“He says thank you.” 

** _I did. _ **

**[Patrick]**  
❤️

He stares at the heart again, so small, so red, so euphoria-inducing. 

“What should I do now?” he asks, finally switching back over to FaceTime. “I made them sandwiches earlier, but they’ll probably be there for a while. They could be hungry when they get home.” He heads back into the kitchen and begins looking through the pantry for inspiration. 

Stevie is quiet for a moment. She’s _ never _ quiet unless she’s plotting something. But when she speaks, what comes out is relatively innocuous: “Food is good. Maybe something comforting. Comforting and easy.” There’s something in her tone, though, something _ kind. _Ugh. 

David opens the spice cabinet and finds a large bottle of chili powder front and center. 

“Bingo. Chili it is.” 

“Good choice. See if they have a slow-cooker.”

He pauses. “Yeah, I don’t know what that is.” 

“You throw everything in and walk away. It slow-cooks for a couple of hours. Hence the name.” She manages to say all of this without sarcasm and it unnerves him thoroughly. 

“Mkay,” he says, looking one up on the internet. “Oh I just saw that.” He heads back over to the pantry and opens the door, finding it on the top shelf. “Ah ha.” He points the phone at it and she gives him a thumbs up. “Now I just need to google a recipe. The New York Times always had a chili recipe every fall.” 

He switches back to the internet and a quick search gives him something whose ingredients list doesn’t look too overwhelming. 

“Need me to walk you through this, too?” Stevie drawls, but David is already shaking his head, even though she can’t see him anymore. 

“No, this one I want to handle on my own,” he replies and if he sounds like a rebellious teenager, then so be it. He has to avenge the enchiladas. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be minding our store?”

“Alexis is currently upselling a woman on your skincare line. I’m in the back room, looking at how many online orders I’ll have to do before you get back.” 

Now that makes him pause. “Wow, you really are on top of things,” he murmurs and she scoffs. 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she says, but it contains little bite. “David?” 

“Yeah?” he asks, already opening the fridge to see what ingredients Marcy has. He may have to run to the store. 

“You’re really good at this.” 

“At what?” 

“Taking care of people.” 

He pulls his head out of the fridge and switches back to FaceTime, frowning at her. 

“I mean it,” she says in response to his skeptical look. “Patrick is lucky to have you. They all are.” 

“Okay, stop being weird,” he orders, but if it comes out somewhat wet, Stevie is kind enough not to comment. 

“I like that look for you, by the way,” she says with a grin. 

He glances down at his baseball jersey/apron combo. “Oh fuck off.” Okay. Now they’re back in familiar territory. 

“Gotta go, Alexis needs help at the register. Don’t burn the house down!” she shouts with a happy wave, disconnecting the call before he can even form a snarky reply. 

Bitch. 

Luckily, the kitchen has almost everything he needs and a quick run to the store five minutes away gets him the green pepper, diced tomatoes, and ground cumin he had been missing. He throws some jello in, too, just in case. 

The slow-cooker seems easy enough to manage, offering significantly fewer options than the washer. Just **Keep Warm**, **Low**, and **High**. The recipe from the Times is also pretty straightforward: cut up an onion and mash some garlic, brown the ground turkey, dump everything into the slow-cooker, and then, like Stevie said, walk away. 

Sure, he burns the garlic and cuts his finger while chopping the pepper, but it’s finished now - or well on its way, filling the kitchen with the kind of smell that makes David want to curl up in a blanket with a book while an independent French film plays in the background. 

The dryer had started beeping at him, so he pulled the sheets out and transferred the towels over. When they were finished, he tossed everything into the plastic basket nearby and brought it into the kitchen, propping it up on a chair so he could start to fold the way Stevie taught him. 

His phone is in a mug, letting the sound travel as a Sufjan Stevens playlist echoes around the room. He’s just finishing the last towel, thankful the stains came out, when he hears a floorboard creak behind him. 

“David?” 

He whips around, brandishing the towel like a weapon as Patrick stands in the doorway, jaw hanging open. Marcy moves him out of the way a moment later, glancing around at the clean kitchen, eyes lingering on the slow-cooker and then the freshly folded pile of laundry. 

“You did all of this?” she asks. 

“Oh, um. Yeah.” He hastily hits pause on his phone, silencing the music as the rush of his blood roars in his ears. 

Marcy comes over and stares at him and, for a moment, he’s terrified that he’s done something wrong. He wants nothing more than to flick his eyes over to Patrick, but oh dear God he can’t actually look away from her watery gaze, and then - 

And then. 

She cups his face in her hands so gently, so much like Adelina used to, and runs her thumbs across his cheekbones. 

“You sweet boy,” she whispers. 

_ “My sweet boy,” _she had called Patrick. 

He swallows past the lump in his throat because he _ cannot _cry in front of his romantic interest’s sweet-as-pie, but emotionally vulnerable mother and exhales sharply. 

“I just wanted to help,” he whispers roughly. 

“You did,” she murmurs, bringing him down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Smells delicious.” With a fond and knowing smile, she gently pats his cheek before moving away to stir the chili. 

David turns back to Patrick and - 

Patrick is staring at him like - like David doesn’t even know what. Like he’s a wonder and a marvel and a miracle all wrapped up into one. 

“I didn’t realize you’d be home so soon.” 

“Visiting hours are over,” he croaks. “I tried to text, but my phone died.” 

He stumbles forward a step and David meets him halfway, hyper-aware that Marcy is just on the other side of the room since Patrick doesn’t seem to be aware of much of anything beyond David, which is - 

Something. 

“So this is where little Patrick Brewer grew up,” he manages, giving Patrick a significant look which seems to shake something in him. 

“Right - yeah,” he says with a self-conscious chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck as his ears go pink. His gaze keeps darting over to his mom, but she seems so delighted by the clean kitchen and promise of dinner that David doubts she noticed the charged moment between them. 

“Do I get the grand tour then?” he asks. “I promised not to snoop. I’ve been very good.” 

Patrick chuckles as Marcy finally rejoins the conversation. “Sweetie, show David the guest room and get yourselves settled. It’s been a long day for everyone. We can eat whenever you’re ready.” 

“Okay, Mom.” Patrick picks their bags up from the floor as David pulls the apron he’d forgotten to take off over his head. “Is that my shirt?” he blurts, eyes wide, and David glances down at himself, cheeks heating. 

“Look, desperate times called for desperate measures,” he defends, but Patrick looks like he’d love nothing more than to drop the bags and slam him up against the nearest surface, proving that the times aren’t the only thing that’s desperate. 

David can’t say he’d mind in the slightest.


	3. Chapter 3

Move over Massimo Bottura. Here come the Michelin stars. David Rose is a chef. 

Patrick’s chili bowl has been wiped clean, Marcy is finishing off her glass of wine, and David - oh, David is learning things: 

“... and then he said, ‘Well, if she can’t play, then neither will I,’ and he sat down right there on the mound and crossed his little arms, face in a frown.” Marcy is laughing so hard, she’s crying and David is _ thisclose _ to falling out of his chair as she regales them with the story of when six-year-old Patrick staged a sit-in in the middle of the baseball field because his neighbor, a girl, was not allowed to play in their boys-only league. 

Patrick has covered his face with his hands and is slowly shaking his head. From what David can see, his ears are beet red.

“What can I say?” he starts, voice muffled by his palms. “I’m all about women’s rights.” 

“As you should be,” Marcy teasingly scolds, standing up with her bowl and reaching across to take David’s. 

“No, please, let me,” he tries, but she’s shushing him before the sentence fully leaves his mouth. 

“After all you’ve done? Absolutely not.” She moves towards the sink, and Patrick follows her with his own bowl and the cheese and sour cream they had used as well. 

David is left at the table, propping his chin in his hand and watching mother and son work in tandem. They’re more alike than either of them knows, he thinks, and the thought brings a soft smile to his face. Sure, Patrick is taller and Marcy’s hair is longer but they move the same way - graceful but efficient. They’re there to get a job done and they’re going to do it well. 

“What?” Patrick asks when he turns back, dish towel slung over his shoulder, to find David staring. 

“I believe I was promised a tour.” 

Patrick smiles. “You were. But then you got side-tracked by cornbread.” 

“Well, I didn’t know your mom had the mix.” And it was true. David had been all prepared to be shown the ‘guest room’ when Marcy announced that she had the ingredients needed to make delicious little muffins to go with their chili. He cannot be held accountable for his actions when cornbread is in play. 

“You boys go ahead,” Marcy calls from the sink. “I’m just about done here.” 

“You sure?” Patrick asks, always the dutiful son, but Marcy just shoos him away with a whip of her hand, sending soap suds floating down to the floor. 

“You know where the extra towels are. Make sure David has some.” 

“Will do,” he replies, giving David that shy, crooked smile that’s quickly becoming his favorite. “Shall we?” 

“Are there baby pictures along the way?” 

“Unfortunately,” Patrick grumbles as Marcy giggles. 

“I’ll show you the ones he skips over,” she promises and David gives her a wide grin as Patrick leaves the kitchen with a groan. 

David follows, smile still firmly in place as he watches Patrick pick up the bags he had dropped by the foot of the stairs when the promise of chili and cornbread became too much to move further. He should go and help, but the pull of the stories the photos on the wall tell is more temptation than David can handle. He steps up to the first one and peers in close. 

“Was this Halloween?” 

“School picture day.” 

“No,” David blurts, leaning in again to look at five-year-old, dimpled Patrick grinning from beneath the cowl of his Batman costume. “Your parents let you wear it?” 

“Yep. Pretty sure Dad still has the photo in his wallet.” His breath hitches at the mention of his father, and David gives him a soft smile, abandoning his exploration and coming over to take his bag from Patrick’s grip. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, using every ounce of will power he has to not lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Lead the way.” 

Patrick swallows and nods, gaze flicking to David’s lips. “Okay.” 

There’s something charged, but soft about them. David has never let his guard down like this in the beginning of a relationship before. Never let himself be vulnerable or not want to run in the other direction when his partner has shown the kind of vulnerability that Patrick has over the past day. 

David glances over his shoulder and doesn’t see Marcy in the doorway, so he darts in and takes what he wants; he kisses that quirk of his lips at the corner of his mouth, before pulling back with a bashful smile. 

Patrick’s ears are pink as he turns and starts up the stairs, leaving his free arm hanging down and his fingers loose so David has no choice but to grab hold. Patrick squeezes in return. 

He leads them to the bedroom on the left, pushing the door open with his shoulder and letting go of David’s hand to let him walk into the room first. It’s tastefully decorated, with another quilt on the queen bed not entirely unlike the one in Marcy and Clint’s bedroom, but this one is in patterns of sky blue and deep navy instead of cream and rich red. There are fewer family pictures here - just a large print of a lighthouse on a stormy evening above the bed. 

“This okay?” Patrick asks, and David turns to find him fidgeting in the doorway. Oh. 

He’s nervous. 

“Patrick, I sleep in a twin bed in a rundown motel room with my sister. It’s perfect.” 

Patrick smiles and nods, gesturing back into the hall. “The bathroom is down and to the right. My room is just across the way.” 

“Can I see it?” he asks only too eagerly. Patrick raises an eyebrow. 

“You mean you really didn’t snoop?” 

“I told you I wouldn’t!” he argues. He _ is _capable of reining in his curiosity from time to time. Occasionally. Very rarely. Only when it matters. 

“Okay,” Patrick says with a small chuckle, like he knows exactly what David was thinking. He walks across the hall with David hot on his heels, practically bumping into his back to get there faster. 

David hopes it has memorabilia from when Patrick was little, frozen for him to inspect, like the time capsule Adelina once thought would be fun to make, but which was dug up three days later when his mother realized he had buried Madeleine to give future generations (or aliens) a sense of today’s fashion. 

At least in this case, he’s not disappointed: there’s a twin bed pushed against the wall, wooden head- and footboards scuffed and chipped from years of hanging things on them, a baseball in a plastic case signed by a name he doesn’t recognize on the bookshelf, and multiple trophies lined up on the bureau, little baseball and hockey statues free of dust, probably cleaned with love by Marcy. 

David leans in to read the plaque. “Patrick Matthew Brewer. Player of the Year?” 

Patrick hums, embarrassed. “I told them they could turn it into an office or something, but…” he shrugs and gestures. “I guess they didn’t want to.” 

“They’re proud of you,” he replies, straightening and watching as Patrick sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Matthew is a nice name. Suits you.” 

He blushes and shrugs again, clearly unsure how to take the compliment since he had no part in his naming. “Thanks.”

“How long since you’ve been back?” 

It’s a relatively innocent question, but Patrick stiffens, clearing his throat as his knuckles turn white. “Two months, one week, three days.” 

The specificity makes David pause. The silence stretches, full of everything neither of them is saying. 

“That’s not very long,” he says carefully, only too aware of what Patrick told him in the car earlier that morning (that _ morning _? Fuck, it feels like forever ago). 

Patrick’s expression is slightly pained as he murmurs, “Both too long, and not long enough.” But then his features smooth and he tilts his head, looking at David softly. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, just - 16-year-old Patrick is having a moment.” 

David cocks his head and frowns, not understanding. Patrick smiles. 

“He finally has a boy he likes alone in his room.” 

“Oh,” David breathes, turning and clocking the partially open door, before nudging it with his shoulder and moving to the bed to stand between Patrick’s knees, draping his arms over his shoulders. 

“And what would 16-year-old Patrick have done with a boy he likes alone in his room?” 

“Probably had a panic attack,” he replies with a rueful smile, no doubt thinking of his meltdown earlier that day. 

David bends forward and presses a kiss to his forehead, cupping the back of his head and scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Patrick hums in contentment, letting his head drop to press against David’s sternum. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“You’ve said that already.” 

“No, I mean - ” he leans back and holds David’s waist, rubbing his thumbs just under the t-shirt, “you made her laugh tonight. So much. I don’t think she would have done that had it been just the two of us.” 

And in that moment, David desperately wants to see what Patrick and Marcy are like when they aren’t emotionally drained from watching their father/husband nearly die, when things aren’t strained from weeks of saying nothing, when he makes her laugh the way he makes David laugh - loudly and without shame. Patrick loves his mother, David knows this. Adores her. Which is why this is all so painful for him. 

“Have you talked?” he asks softly. 

“About what?”

“Anything.” 

Patrick scrunches his nose. “Not really.” 

“She’s happy you’re home, though,” he hedges and Patrick lets out a slow, shaky breath. 

“Yeah. Very.” 

David kisses his forehead again and looks around the room, trying to find a topic that’s a bit less heavy than fractured familial interrelationships. He spies a beat up child’s baseball glove on another shelf and he snorts. 

“I’m sensing a bit of a theme here. I even saw a bat on the porch when I came in.” 

“Yeah. Mom said the neighbor’s boy, Tommy, has been borrowing it. He was,” he blows out a breath, “maybe four when I moved out and got my own place? Gotta be twelve or thirteen now. His, uh, his dad left so I played catch with him when I could.” 

David bites his lips, ignoring the feeling of warmth spreading throughout his body from his chest. “You’re a good person, Patrick Brewer,” he says instead and Patrick scoffs. 

“Says the guy who’s been holding me up, sometimes literally, for the past twelve hours.” 

David swats at him, but Patrick merely shrugs. “It’s true. And as for Tommy, I didn’t exactly do much to teach him that not every male presence in his life doesn’t run away.” 

And that’s the crux of it. The reason Patrick’s eyes move around the house like the walls are closing in on him. He never felt comfortable in his life, and now that he knows why, it’s just one more secret for him to keep. The widening of the wedge between him and his parents. Patrick loves them, but at the moment, he’s terrified of them. David sees the fear in his eyes every time they connect. 

“Hey, you haven’t been gone that long. You can still...”

“Still what?” he asks. He sounds miserable. It was difficult for him to make that decision. To leave. David wouldn’t call it running, but Patrick, who always does the noble thing, sees it as nothing but. 

David cups his face in his hands, forcing their gazes to meet. “Play a game of catch,” he whispers.

Patrick swallows and nods, and David sees the relief wash over his face. Maybe he needed to hear that. Maybe he needed to know that he hasn’t ruined everything. 

He hears Marcy’s footsteps on the stairs, wooden floorboards creaking, and he steps back from Patrick’s grasp, ignoring the pained crease that appears on his forehead as he does so. 

“It’s okay,” he mouths, but Patrick just shakes his head and hastily wipes a hand across his face. David clears his throat and times his response just as Marcy pokes her head in the door to ask if they need anything: 

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted and my skincare routine takes ages so I suggest you use the bathroom first.”

xxxxxx

He doesn’t know what to do with a bed that’s actually comfortable. And big enough to fit him. That has sheets with a thread count higher than a burlap sack. 

Hitting his phone where it’s charging, the screen tells him it’s just after 2am and, given that he didn’t sleep well the night before because of the _ feelings _ a particular kiss stirred up (he refuses to call them ‘butterflies’ - he’s not that cliche), he should be passed out, but his brain just won’t cooperate. He rolls over onto his left side, and then a minute later onto his right. Giving it up with a sigh, he throws the covers back and pads to the door to use the bathroom, not because of any pressing need, just for a break in the monotony. When he reaches the hall, though, he notices the light in Patrick’s bedroom is on, soft yellow spilling onto the carpet from under the door. 

Frowning and knowing he definitely didn’t misread the time on his phone, David tiptoes closer and leans in, holding his breath and trying to calm his beating heart, but he doesn’t hear anything. Patrick is the responsible one who goes to bed at reasonable hours and wakes up at the crack of dawn, all perky and ready to face the day. This isn’t like him. 

He raises his fist and hesitates just a moment, before knocking so softly, he’s honestly wondering if Patrick would hear it even if he were awake. Finally, a sniff comes followed by a quiet “Yeah?” and David turns the knob, tugging at his white t-shirt as he slips in through the crack in the door. 

Patrick is sitting up in bed, eyes red, cheeks wet. He looks resigned as he gives David a little shrug, laughing self-deprecatingly even as he dissolves into tears again. 

“Oh honey,” he breathes, padding across the room and sliding onto the small bed next to him without a thought. Patrick folds into his chest, burying his face in his shirt and David holds him as he shakes apart in his arms. 

David’s throat goes tight and tears prick his eyes and he doesn’t quite know what’s happening because the last time he felt like this was when Alexis said, _ “David, will you please give me a hug?” _It’s a new feeling - this hurting when someone you care for hurts. 

So he holds him tight, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and whispering placations that he’s not sure are even registering. But Patrick eventually quiets, sobs calming down to hiccups and shuddering breaths, tears soaking the cotton beneath his face. 

For once, David doesn’t care for the state of his shirt. 

“It’s a shitty thing,” Patrick murmurs. 

“What is?”

“Realizing your parents are fallible.” 

“Yes,” David breathes, thinking of his mother’s multiple breakdowns and his father’s blind trust in old friends. They both have their health, thank God, but they’re human in other ways. “Yes, it is.” 

“I almost lost him today.”

David inhales sharply. “I know.” 

“And he never would have known.” 

“Known what, honey?”

“Who I really am,” he says, voice tight like he’s a hair’s breadth away from falling apart again. “They’re supposed to know me the best and they don’t know me at all.” 

David closes his eyes and presses his cheek to the top of Patrick’s head, holding him tighter. “I think they know you better than you think they do.”

He finally pulls away and looks up with swollen, red eyes. “Yeah?”

David nods and whispers, “Yeah.”

Patrick’s gaze flits down to his lips briefly and David quirks them into a smile. Nothing about this is sexual, but he likes that they’re exploring this new territory together. This intimacy. 

“I really like you,” Patrick murmurs and he immediately glances down, ears going pink like he can’t believe he just said that. 

David can’t help his answering smile. “Well I really like you, too.” 

“Like, a lot.” 

David nods and wipes the lingering tears from his cheeks with his thumb. “Yeah.”

“And that’s kind of terrifying,” Patrick admits.

“Well,” David starts and he has to swallow because his throat has gone dry. “We can be terrified together then.” 

Patrick sighs, sinking into him again, and David scoots down on the bed and holds him close, because he honestly doesn’t think he’d be able to let him go. 

He falls asleep before he even has a chance to think about how thoroughly fucking world-rocking that is.

xxxxxx

Sun is shining into his eyes at an angle that it usually doesn’t at the motel. He turns with a groan and buries his face into the pillow, smelling pine and the shampoo that Patrick uses that is definitely not sold at the store, which David has been meaning to talk to him about. 

The door creaks open and he pulls the covers over his head. “Go away, Alexis.”

“If you think I’m Alexis, then we need to have a conversation,” a voice says, and David’s eyes shoot open, blinking rapidly in an effort to take in a room that is definitely not his own in a house that is definitely not the motel. 

Patrick leans against the door jamb with a cup of coffee in his hand, looking both pleased and sheepish at being there. In his own room. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Oh my God, does your mom know I spent the night here?” He shoots up in bed and pulls the covers up to his chest, like he somehow is in need of modesty. Like he’s ever had a modest bone in his body his whole life. Like his favorite pastime wasn't running away from Adelina stark naked after bath time. 

Patrick shakes his head and crosses the room, setting the mug down on the side table. “I was up early. I closed your door. She thought you were still in there when she left.”

“She went to the hospital?”

Patrick hums. “About an hour ago. That’s for you, by the way.”

David grabs for it, because caffeine, but his eyes remain on Patrick. “You didn’t go?” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“What time is it?” he drinks a gulp, prepared to perfection, and groans. 

“Just after ten,” Patrick replies and David lowers the mug. 

“You should have woken me.” 

“And face your wrath? I believe you told me not 48 hours ago you’re not a morning person.” 

And because of that, David missed the opportunity of waking up in bed with Patrick Brewer. It’s not a mistake he intends on repeating. He scoots over as much as he can and pats the space next to him, leaning against Patrick’s side when he slides into the bed. 

“I would have woken up for your dad.”

“High praise, indeed. He’ll be flattered,” he teases. “It’s okay. Mom’s been texting me updates. He hates the hospital breakfast almost as much as the dinner, so no change there. She actually insisted you sleep. You did a lot yesterday.”

He flushes and buries his nose in the mug again. “It was nothing.”

“Not to me,” Patrick murmurs and he sounds so serious, David looks up. Those honey-brown eyes are earnest and pleading and filled with things that David is too frightened to name. “Last night, that wasn’t - that wasn’t nothing to me.”

“Me either,” he whispers in reply. 

Patrick leans in and presses a soft kiss to his sleep-rumpled head. “Thank you, David.”

But it’s not enough for David so he leans up and chases those lips, pressing them together and not caring (for perhaps the first time in his life) that he tastes like morning breath and coffee. 

“You know, you should feel very special. No one gets to see me looking like this.”

Patrick smiles. “Then I’m flattered, too.”

He takes another gulp of coffee and consciously tries not to burrow into Patrick’s body - Patrick’s body which is fully clothed in items other than the pajamas David fell asleep clinging to. 

“I’ll get dressed and we can go,” he says after another gulp. 

“You sure?”

“Patrick, you’re practically vibrating. Yes, I’m sure.”

There are very few people he’d sacrifice his morning routine for, but apparently Patrick Brewer is one of them. He cuts his shower down by half and doesn’t spend nearly as much time massaging the lotion into his skin that the formula requires. 

Fifty-three minutes after Patrick surprised him in bed with perfectly-prepared coffee, he’s sliding his sunglasses into place and pulling the Tupperware of jello he made for Mr. Brewer the night before out of the fridge. 

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Patrick calls, grabbing the keys from the side table and opening the front door, waiting for David to join him. 

It feels so domestic that he has to take a moment. 

The ride to the hospital this time is significantly less stressful. Patrick’s even nodding along to the Mariah playlist David picked right back up from where they left off (_Glitter _ \- unfairly maligned in David’s not-so-humble opinion). Thankfully, their burgeoning relationship won’t suffer on account of that. Straight-leg denim he can handle. A lack of Mimi appreciation, he cannot. 

“Should we call Stevie?” Patrick asks. “See how the store is doing?” 

They should. It’s after 11am. It will have been open for two hours now, assuming she managed to open on time. 

“Sure,” he replies, already pulling out his phone and hitting Stevie’s name. He puts her on speaker so Patrick can hear too, a move he thoroughly regrets when she picks up without saying hello. 

“Are you freaking out again?” she greets instead and, holy fuck, David wants to die.

“Um, excuse you, I did _ not _freak out,” he snaps, side-eyeing Patrick who looks infinitely more intrigued by the conversation. 

“You did a bit.” 

“Did not.” 

“David, you Facetimed me from your in-laws’ laundry room.” 

“You’re on_ speakerphone_,” he hisses and she cackles. 

“Hi, Patrick.” 

“Hi, Stevie,” he replies, taking way too much delight in this. “So what exactly did David freak out about? Detergent-to-softener ratio?” 

“Nothing of consequence!” he yells and his voice is so shrill, it squeaks. 

“But I thought you didn’t freak out,” Stevie needles. 

“Oh my God.” 

Patrick is outright laughing now, which brings David some consolation if he’s going to suffer thus. 

“How’s your dad?” she asks when she’s recovered from a frankly appallingly overacted fit of hysterics. 

“He’s good,” Patrick replies, wiping tears from his face. “If his levels hold steady, they think he might go home today.” 

“That’s amazing,” Stevie replies and David and Patrick share a soft look. 

“Yeah.”

“How’s the store you’re supposed to be minding?” David asks pointedly and Patrick swats his thigh. 

“As a favor,” he interjects. 

“Thank you, _ Patrick_, the store is just fine.” 

All of a sudden, a notification comes up for an incoming Facetime call and David rolls his eyes, but answers it all the same. 

“See for yourself,” she says, moving the phone in a slow panoramic. Jocelyn waves from the corner where Alexis is helping her with some toner. 

“Hi, boys,” she calls. “Patrick, you and your family have been in my prayers.” 

“Thanks, Jocelyn,” he replies, and David can tell he’s touched. 

“Jocelyn, do you have any questions about that one?”

“Ew, David,” Alexis snaps. “I know what the function of toner is more than you do.” 

“Your skin says otherwise,” he retorts.

“See?” Stevie says with a broad grin. “Everything is as it should be.”

David hums. “I’m counting the wine bottles when I get back.” 

“Services rendered,” she reminds. “When are you coming home? 

David and Patrick look at each other. “Um, we haven’t crossed that bridge yet, but I’ll let you know asap when we do.” 

“No rush. Your dad and Roland are one bonding experience away from a buddy cop movie over at the motel.” 

“That’s… terrifying, actually.” The expression on Patrick’s face seems to suggest he agrees. 

“Dead bodies really bring people together, ya know?” 

They pull into the parking lot and David is only too glad that this farce is coming to an end soon. 

“Oh we’re at the hospital, gotta go, so sad, thanks again, kay bye!” He hits the button with more force than necessary and stares out the window, refusing to look in Patrick’s general direction. 

It’s silent for one blissful moment - until it’s not. 

“In-laws, huh?” 

“We need never speak of this again.” 

“Whatever you say, David,” he replies, sounding entirely too pleased by this horrific turn of events. But then he takes David’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles and David’s mortification levels recede just a bit. 

But only a bit. 

Fucking Stevie. 

He’s about to open the car door, but Patrick’s hand comes down on his forearm, gripping tight and preventing him from moving. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, expression open and soft and more than a little fond. “One more for the road?” 

Oh David Rose is in so much fucking trouble. 

“God yeah,” he whispers, echoing Patrick’s own words back at him as he gets a hand around his neck and pulls him to his lips.

And in this moment, he forgets about ‘in-laws’ and secrets and exes because, in this fucking fantastic moment, David’s afraid he might ask for it all. And if the way Patrick is kissing him is any indication, he might very well just give it to him. 

They pull apart and just breathe, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. 

“I will tell them, David,” Patrick whispers. 

“Hey,” he says, nudging his nose. “This is your life. Your timetable. Not anyone else’s.”

Patrick pulls away and looks into his eyes. “I want them to know.’ 

Oh.

“Okay,” he breathes, feeling more than he has any right to on day-fucking-two. “And I will be here for whatever happens. We’ll get through it together.” 

Because it’s not day two, is it? They’ve been crashing towards each other for weeks now.

“Okay,” Patrick agrees, leaning in for one more kiss before reaching blindly for the door. 

The walk to the hospital’s front doors is pure torture. David wants nothing more than to hold Patrick’s hand and thread their fingers together because Patrick has a habit of running his thumb back and forth in the hollow between David’s thumb and forefinger that drives him wild. Thankfully, his favorite nurse who showed him where the coffee cart was is back behind the desk to settle his frayed nerves. She takes their IDs with a wide smile, acknowledging that their visit this time is under more promising circumstances (it is still the ICU after all). 

David starts to turn towards the waiting room, but Patrick gets a hold of the sleeve of his sweater (they will be having a conversation about proper sartorial etiquette toot-sweet) and gently tugs him in the other direction. 

“Do you want to meet him?” he asks as they make their way down the hallway, but David stops dead, eyes widening. 

“What? No, I can’t - I don’t belong there. That’s family - that’s - I’m not - ”

But before he can verbally spew any more excuses, Marcy is poking her head into the hallway from a room just up ahead and beckoning them over. 

“I thought I heard you two. David, come meet Clint.”

Clint. Not Mr. Brewer. _ Clint_. “Oh, God.”

Patrick snorts. “You’ve met my mother.”

“Who’s a ball of joy and maternal warmth.”

“Dad’s honestly not much different,” Patrick reasons, but David’s Converse sneakers are still rooted to the linoleum floor. “Babe, you brought him jello,” he says under his breath. “He’s going to love you.”

_ Babe._ David cannot begin to describe how those four little letters light him up inside. 

“Okay,” he eventually whispers, managing a smile for Marcy’s sake as Patrick all but shoves him down the hall. 

He’s never been in an ICU room before - it’s more intense than any scrape Alexis managed to get herself into - and out of. More wires and tubes and monitors, but the man sitting up in bed in a bathrobe David brought him not 24 hours ago looks downright jovial to be there. 

Granted, if he had a brush with death and lived to tell the tale, David’s sure he’d look pretty goddamn jovial, too. 

“David Rose,” Mr. Brewer says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“None of it’s true,” he blurts. 

“So I don’t have you to thank for bringing me a bit of comfort from home?” he says, eyes twinkling as he tugs at the lapel of his terrycloth robe. He looks so much like Patrick in that moment that David nearly gasps. 

“Okay, it’s half-true,” he manages, smiling despite himself. 

“Hey, Dad,” Patrick greets, brushing a surreptitious hand across David’s back under the guise of moving past him. 

“Hey, bud.” Clint holds out an arm and Patrick leans in to give him a gentle hug. 

Of course the Brewers are huggers. All of them. Even those in the IC-fucking-U. 

“David brought you jello,” Patrick says and David holds out the container full of red gelatin, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

Clint’s eyes light up. “My hero,” he says as he reaches for the tupperware, and now that David is close enough, Clint holds out his hand for David to shake. He has a surprisingly firm grip for someone who had a heart attack just over 24 hours ago. 

Patrick watches this interaction with an expression that’s inscrutable. Sometimes David wishes he was a mindreader. But then he thinks of Sebastian Raine and decides that would be the worst idea in a long history of bad ideas. 

Clint opens the tupperware and looks at Marcy. “Honey, can you - ”

“Yeah, Yeah,” she cuts him off. “I’ll get you a spoon.”

“My other hero,” he stage whispers with a wink as she walks out the door. 

Oh David loves Clint Brewer already. 

“So, David, tell me about the store. I’m sorry if you’ve gone through all of this with Marcy already, but we’re just so eager to hear how it’s doing.” 

He watches Patrick visibly flinch out of the corner of his eye. He knows Clint didn’t mean anything other than paternal enthusiasm for his child’s endeavors, but he also knows that Patrick has been reticent to get in touch; reluctant to give away too much. Clint’s probably thirsting for any bit of information like a dying man in the desert. 

And perhaps a ‘dying man’ metaphor is not good while the man it represents is literally hooked up to a heart rate monitor. 

“It’s going well. I would hesitate to call it ‘thriving’ yet, but we’re still getting off our feet. Making up for front-loading the stock and the initial start-up costs. But every week we’re chipping away at it.” 

“Good, good,” Clint says, and he means it. “Can’t wait to see it.” 

Patrick nearly flinches again, but clears his throat and takes a seat in the chair on the far side of Clint’s bed. “David has a real eye for this. It’s his vision. His baby.”

“Our baby,” David replies and promptly flushes. Was metaphorical offspring too much? Is he using metaphors correctly? He really needs to stop. “It, uh, it wouldn’t be what it is without Patrick. I might have a creative eye, but I definitely did not inherit my dad’s business acumen. Rose Apothecary is what it is because of Patrick.” 

Okay. Maybe_ that _was too much. But Patrick is looking at him softly and Clint looks like he’s trying to hide a proud smile so maybe the sky isn’t falling. Yet. 

“Here we are,” Marcy announces, brandishing a plastic spoon like a sword and presenting it like she’s about to knight her husband. 

Clint digs in with relish, smiling cheekily at the nurse who comes in to take his blood pressure. 

“You can’t subsist on a diet solely of gelatin, Mr. Brewer,” she admonishes with a smile. 

“I can try.” 

“That’s what got us here to begin with,” Marcy mutters. 

“And might keep you here,” the nurse says, frowning. “These numbers are a little higher than I’d like. I’m going to suggest we keep you one more night just for observation. It’s probably just a blip, but we’ll monitor you throughout the day.” 

Clint groans as Marcy takes the jello away, and David is starting to panic, but Patrick shakes his head, mouthing, “It’s fine. It wasn’t you,” before his mounting hysteria can truly take hold. The last thing he needs is to accidentally kill Patrick’s father with Red 40. 

The nurse squeezes Marcy’s arm as she passes and she offers her a grateful, if disappointed smile. The crease of worry is back on Patrick’s forehead, and David laments that the mood of their relatively upbeat morning has been soured. 

Clint doesn’t look all that surprised, but he can see the disappointment on the faces of his family. He meets David’s gaze and gives him a pointed look; the kind of look that says the subject is about to be changed and David’s assistance is required. “So, Marcy tells me we’ve been promised a gift basket.” 

“Absolutely,” he says, a little overenthusiastically. “I think some bath bombs are in your future.” 

“I have no idea what that is,” Clint replies and Patrick smiles wryly. 

“It’ll help you relax, Dad.” 

“I’m perfectly relaxed.” 

“Yeah, that’s the drugs.” 

Clint ignores his son and focuses on David again. “Will there be jello in the gift basket?” 

“Enough with the jello,” Marcy replies. “I’ve already removed the red meat from the house and we’ll be drinking the rest of the wine tonight before you get home.”

“Now that’s just mean.” 

“Well don’t try to leave me again and I won’t be mean.” 

Christ, that was sweet. Clint seems to think so too, and Patrick looks equal parts charmed and embarrassed, but it’s nice that his parents are still in love. God knows David’s are. 

He wrote that off for himself a long time ago, but now, staring at Patrick watching his parents and trying to hide a smile even as his ears turn red, he wonders. 

He could see them bickering like that down the line. Like, really far down the line. And that’s fucking frightening. 

He’s about to tell Clint about the wonders of exfoliating skincare when Patrick’s face does something - goes slack or freezes or… falls. It’s one of those expressions you see in the movies when the protagonist has gotten really bad news, like when Colin Firth walked in on Hugh Grant fucking his fiancee. 

“Hi, Patrick.” 

David turns at the new voice to find a petite woman with red hair holding a small bouquet of flowers. When Patrick’s voice comes, it’s strangled. 

“Rachel?” 

And David feels the blood drain from his face. 

_ “Her name is Rachel. We got together in high school. She was my best friend…” _

He just _ had _ to think of fiancees. 

Marcy looks stricken for a moment, before her perky demeanor slides firmly in place. If David wasn’t absolutely spiraling out of control, he might focus more on that and what exactly it meant. 

“Rachel, sweetheart,” she says, moving over and giving her a hug. “We weren’t expecting you.” 

He hates that Marcy calls her ‘sweetheart’ too. 

_ She was there first. _

“Hi,” Rachel greets, a little hesitant, and as much as David would love to turn and see how Patrick is handling this unexpected arrival, he simply _ cannot _look away from her beautiful, kind, concerned face. This is the woman Patrick was going to marry. 

And yet David can’t find it in himself to hate her. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to just drop by. I tried texting you,” she says to Patrick and David finally looks over in time to see him look down shamefaced, “but I didn’t hear back.”

Oh. That’s not a nice feeling. What he’s currently experiencing. 

“Sorry,” Patrick replies, clearing his throat and studiously avoiding looking at anyone in the room. “Things have been...”

“Right, of course,” she quickly says, saving him from himself. 

David wants to disappear into the floor. 

“Clint, these are for you,” she says, gesturing to the flowers as she moves past and giving David a small if curious smile before placing a kiss on Clint’s cheek. 

“Thank you, Rachel. That’s very sweet of you.” 

_ It’s not jello, though_, his brain pettily supplies. 

“If only it were jello,” Clint says and David’s head snaps up. God, he loves him. 

The room is thick with tension and Patrick isn’t helping matters, sitting in the chair next to his father’s bed and staring at the chart hanging off the end. Marcy’s gaze keeps flicking back and forth between them, and David would be flattered by her concern if his ears weren’t starting to ring. 

“You know, I’m going to give you time to catch up.” Is his voice always that high? “Nice to meet you,” he blurts out to Rachel, even though they haven’t properly been introduced. 

“David, wait - ” Patrick finally says as he stands, but David is shaking his head and waving his arms and Christ, he really does need to work on controlling his body. 

“It’s fine. Totally fine. I need to walk Stevie through fulfilling the online orders anyway. So you just - ” he glances around: Clint looks concerned, Rachel looks confused, Marcy looks upset, and Patrick - Patrick looks terrified. “Yeah.” 

He’s out the door and down the hall before Patrick can even call him back. 

Not that he would anyway.

xxxxxx

He tries to tell himself he’s living his best Mary Shelley life by sitting on a bench overlooking the bay while a thunderstorm rolls in in the distance, but he’s already getting chilly and this sweater can’t get wet and he doesn’t want to call Stevie and give her even_ more _ ammunition, but he really does need to talk to someone. 

He knew Patrick had a fiancee. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. Was it the ease with which she interacted with Marcy and Clint? What, did David somehow think he had a monopoly on that? That’s probably how they acted with all of their son's significant others. 

The problem is that they don’t know David is one, too. 

Back in the car, when Patrick first told him about Rachel, she was a figure in the abstract. Then all of a sudden she was flesh and blood and cute to boot and showing up in the hospital with fucking flowers (peonies, ew) and kissing Clint on the cheek. 

He groans and drops his chin to his chest, thoroughly wishing he had grabbed a macchiato from the cart for the road. 

He supposes he should call Stevie. Solely to tell her how to fulfill the online orders, naturally. With another harsh exhale, he pulls out his phone and, once again, hits her name. And, once again, she doesn’t even bother with a greeting: 

“It’s because you miss me, isn’t it,” she deadpans. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, but it contains barely half the bite he wants it to. 

“How’s things?” 

“Fine.” It’s a lie and she knows it’s a lie, but she leaves it be. “Just, um, calling about the online orders.” 

“Right.” Stevie sounds muffled as she pulls the phone away from her ear and calls, “Alexis, I’m heading in the back for a second.” 

“Kay!” he hears his sister answer.

“You guys seem to have a good working relationship.” 

Stevie hums. “She more than makes up for my lack of enthusiasm. I am, however, upset that you don’t have a computer at the counter. How am I ever going to beat my solitaire high score?” 

“The world will just have to suffer in silence. Okay, you’ll have to get into the backend of the website. The logon information is on a post-it next to the laptop.” 

Stevie snorts. “You know that defeats the purpose of a password.” 

“So my business partner tells me every day.”

“Business partner,” she parrots back to him, clearly mocking, and he winces. “Okay, logged in.” 

“Go to the top where it says ‘Orders.” His phone vibrates in his hand and he pulls it away from his ear in time to see Patrick’s name flash on the screen. “Hang on,” he says, before holding his breath and tapping the message. 

**[Patrick]**   
**Where did you go? **

He rolls his eyes even as his heart pounds and puts the phone back to his ear. “Okay.” 

“Was it Patrick?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

And that makes her pause. “David, what’s going on?” 

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, looking at the dark clouds inch closer to the shoreline. Now _ that’s _a fucking metaphor.

“He used to be engaged,” he says. It sits like a weight in the pit of his stomach. 

“Used to be,” Stevie repeats. 

“Yeah.” 

“But he’s not anymore.” 

“No.”

“So that’s… good? Better than the alternative?” 

“It seemed to be until she walked into his father’s hospital room twenty minutes ago. She’s been texting Patrick this whole time.”

Stevie is silent for a moment that David hates. She’s supposed to be indignant on his behalf. It’s what best friends do! Oh God, is she his best friend? 

“But he told you?” 

“Not about the texting, no. He told me yesterday about the engagement.” 

“Yesterday.” 

“Why are you repeating everything I’m saying?” His hysteria is rising. He’s not an unreasonable person (all the time). 

“David, the man kisses you for the first time - ”

“Excuse me,_ I _ kissed _ him_!” 

“ - and the next morning, his father has a heart attack. What’s the next thing he does? He tells you he used to be engaged.” 

“He was forced to! He knew I’d probably find out when we got here!” 

He hears her huff a long-suffering sigh over the line. “Remember when I pointed at him behind his back and gave you a thumbs up?” 

“Yes, it happened 48 hours ago,” he snaps. 

“Still true,” she says quietly. “He has… a lot going on right now. He can’t have his parents in his corner because even they don’t know everything he’s wrestling with. He needs _ you _ in his corner.” 

He crosses his free arm across his chest in an attempt to ward off the afternoon chill and closes his eyes again. “When did you get so good at this?” he murmurs. 

“Don’t get used to it. I’m adding another bottle of wine to my ‘services rendered’ tally.” 

He clears his throat in an attempt to keep his emotions in check, but it’s half-assed at best. “You still like this for me?” 

She hums. He can hear her smile. “Very much so.” She pauses. “Also, David, you willingly did laundry for him. Clearly, _ you _ still like this for you.” 

He laughs. “Shut up.” 

His phone buzzes again and he pulls it away, hitting Patrick’s name once more, feeling slightly less trepidation than he did the first time. 

**[Patrick]**   
**Please come back. I need you. **

“What did he say?” she asks because she just knows. It should be annoying, but it isn’t.

“He needs me.” 

“See?”

** _I’m in the park across the street._ **

“I told him where I was.” 

“Good. Now quick tell me what to do with the damn online orders before he gets there.” 

He laughs and wipes at his face, hating that this cheeks are wet, but does as she asks anyway. It doesn’t take long - the backend of their website isn’t all that difficult to navigate. 

“Now hang up before your man comes and you get all gross,” she orders, but when she speaks next, it’s soft. “Best wishes.”

He smiles. “Warmest regards.” 

He hears footsteps behind him, and he stands from the bench, taking a moment to center himself before turning to greet Patrick - but the moment does nothing to prepare him for the way Patrick all but barrels into him, wrapping him up in his arms so tight and burying his face in his neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, muffled. 

David is thrown off balance for a second, both physically and emotionally. “What? No, _ I’m _ sorry,” he says, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s back and cupping the back of his head. “I shouldn’t - shouldn’t have bolted like that. I got…” But he doesn’t know what word he’s looking. So many apply. 

“I didn’t handle it well,” Patrick reasons. “She just showed up and I froze.” 

“Honey, I know,” he soothes. “You froze. I freaked.” 

Patrick pulls away. “You freaked?” 

“It’s fine. Stevie talked me down from the ledge.” 

“Well,” Patrick begins, smiling warmly, “thank God for Stevie then.” 

David matches his smile. Doesn’t he know it. Glancing over Patrick’s shoulder and finding the coast clear, he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to lips he’s rapidly becoming addicted to, before pulling away and wincing slightly, not wanting to upend whatever intense, emotional balancing act they have going on. “You didn’t tell me she was texting you.” 

Patrick sighs and drops his chin to his chest, leaning forward and letting his forehead rest against David’s lips. “She wasn’t. Not really. She texts me jibberish and claims it’s an accident, and I let her and then we start talking and then we get back together and the cycle continues. But I didn’t this time.” He runs his thumbs under David’s sweater at his waist, and David does his best not to shiver. “She did text me yesterday to say she had heard about my dad and to ask if I needed anything.” 

David frowns and presses his lips to the skin that’s conveniently placed right in front of them. “Why didn’t you reply?” 

Patrick leans back and looks into his eyes, deadly serious. “Because I have everything I need.” 

“That’s… a very nice thing to say,” he replies, cheeks heating as he tilts his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. Patrick holds him tighter. 

“I told Rachel that she and I need to talk.” 

David nods, because he knows they do, but that doesn’t make him any less terrified of the outcome. What if she convinces him to come back? What if this really is just a phase? David’s been a fling before, but being Patrick’s might well and truly break him. 

_ Have you not listened to anything he’s said over the past 36 hours? _

He really should have asked if Patrick had regrets in the car. 

“David, I bolted two months ago with barely an explanation. I owe it to my parents, yes. But I owe it to Rachel, too.” 

He looks down and nods again. “I understand.” 

“Do you? Because I need you to know that I’m coming back.” Patrick lets go of his waist and holds his face in his hands. “I’m coming back to you.” 

“Okay,” he breathes, because _ Jesus _ he’d agree to just about anything as long as Patrick keeps looking at him like that. 

“Okay,” Patrick repeats. “I should go. She’s, uh, she’s waiting for me in the parking lot.” 

“Are you okay?” he thinks to ask, because this is technically the first time Patrick will be coming out to someone from his old life, and David wants to be there for him. 

“Yeah. I’m…” he searches for the word and David can practically see the sense of calm that washes over him when he says, “I’m going to be okay.” 

“Of course you are,” he replies. “How do you think she’ll take it?” 

Patrick inhales a shaky breath. “I honestly have no idea.” 

David looks down and takes his hands, running his thumbs over Patrick’s knuckles. “I’m proud of you.” 

Patrick smiles and presses one last kiss to David’s mouth before stepping away and nodding back towards the hospital. “Mom will take you home with her. She’s waiting for you in the lobby.” 

“But… visiting hours aren’t nearly over yet. What about your dad?” 

“She let him open your jello up again,” he says as he laughs. “He’s fine.” He takes a step away and David doesn’t close it. They need to go back to the hospital now. As coworkers. Nothing more. 

David lets the space between them drift wider and wider as they walk, ignoring the red head he can see waiting by Patrick’s car. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs, before turning and heading towards the hospital. 

He can feel Patrick’s eyes on his back the entire way.

xxxxxx

David is grateful that Marcy fills the ride home with more stories from when Patrick was little because David doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to try to carry on a conversation. Maybe she knows that. He’s honestly not sure what she makes of the whole ‘son’s ex-fiancee coming back into his life’ thing, but she’s doing a good job at distracting him. Maybe she needs the distraction, too. It’s clear that both Marcy and Clint like Rachel. Possibly even love her, and David doesn’t know what that means for whatever he and Patrick are. For whatever truths Patrick is convinced he’s going to tell them before they leave here. 

Barely 48 hours into their acquaintance and he can’t bear the idea of breaking Marcy and Clint Brewer’s hearts. 

Even if it means breaking his own. 

Some of the stories are funny, like the time Clint caught Patrick trying to sneak back in after a party by getting in his bed and waiting for him; some are a little scary, like the time he had a high fever that wouldn’t break and had to be admitted to the hospital they just came from. 

By the time they pull up in front of the house, rain has started pattering on the windshield and David knows he’s out of sorts when he doesn’t even try to cover his hair on the walk to the front door. 

Marcy hangs up her jacket and says she’s going to get started on dinner. David insists on helping, but Marcy’s insistence that it’s “just a lasagna” is stronger and, next thing he knows, he’s settled on a rocking chair on the porch, bundled in one of Patrick’s old hoodies, watching the light rain grow to a full-blown storm. 

The screen door opens with a creak and Marcy joins him, holding out a glass of red wine, which he takes with a grateful smile. 

“You weren’t lying when you said it would be out of the house by the time Clint got home.” 

“Nope,” she says, easing into the rocking chair next to his and holding her glass out to clink. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” 

He snorts but nods, taking a sip and sighing deeply. If his emotions weren’t racing the fucking Monaco Grand Prix, this might even be relaxing. 

“I love thunderstorms,” he murmurs and Marcy hums. 

“So do I. Not Patrick, though. At least when he was small.”

“No?” 

She shakes her head. “I knew that if the weather report called for a storm, he’d end up in our bed before morning.” She chuckles. “I was never wrong.” 

They settle into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Marcy has an innate ability to make everyone around her feel at ease, and David is loving learning what made Patrick into the man he is. 

“I really can’t thank you enough for coming with him, David,” she says, startling him. 

“Oh, it was… the least I could do.” 

She looks down at her wine glass and gives it a swirl. “He’s been… distant, since he moved. I think he needed a friend.” 

There’s that word again. Friend. 

He finds that he minds it once more. Now that he feels like he has to stake his claim. 

“I think I needed a friend, too,” he says instead. “I mean, I have one. A best one - friend. A best friend.” He realizes it’s true as he says it. “She was my first, but she was it. So. I was really glad when Patrick moved to town.” 

She smiles warmly, leans over, and pats his hand. “It couldn’t have been easy, what you and your family went through.”

“Oh.” It seems like so long ago now and the people in Schitt’s Creek are so used to it - to them - that it’s no longer something that keeps him up at night. Now it’s vendors and stock and how to prevent his mother from shoplifting. “I didn’t realize you recognized me.” 

She takes another sip of wine. “To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t have. Patrick told us a little about you when he revealed he was joining your business.” 

_ Oh, fucking great. _“A real boost of confidence in his decision, I’m sure,” he drawls and she frowns, studying him. 

“You and your family didn’t do anything wrong. Something wrong was done to you,” she says simply. 

And he’s never really thought about it like that before. “Well, the store wouldn’t be what it is without Patrick.” He takes another sip of wine and hopes his cheeks aren’t too red. 

“Are you liking Schitt’s Creek?”

“It’s… growing on me,” he forces out and she laughs, head tilted back just like Patrick. “The store makes it better.” _ Patrick makes it better. _“There’s honestly not much to do, but we’re going to try to change that.”

“Good.” 

Thunder cracks and they both jump, before laughing at each other. 

“Did you spill?” she asks and he shakes his head. 

“My wine drinking skills are legendary. I trained with the best.” 

“I have no doubt,” she replies. “Did you talk to, Stevie, was it? Your friend? Is the store all right?” It’s odd to be on the receiving end of her questions. After all, it’s not often he’s asked them when people genuinely want to know the answer. 

“Still standing. She even Facetimed us the proof.” 

“Are you missing anything by being here?” Marcy worries her lip and David is quick to assure her. 

“Oh, God no. My birthday was the day before yesterday and that’s about all the excitement I can handle in any given month.”

“Oh goodness, David. Happy birthday! And here you are, spending your birthday week in the hospital. Did you at least do anything fun on the day?” 

He wants to blurt out that his family forgot; that his plan was to pop a pill and cry a little, but he finally has an answer that he’s proud to say out loud. “I did. Um, your son took me out for dinner.” 

“Did he?” She smiles. “That was nice of him.” 

David clears his throat. “Yes, it was.” 

She turns in her chair and stares down the street, as if waiting for something, but both of the men in her life are a little tied up at the moment. “He’s different,” she murmurs eventually, and the breath stops in David’s chest. 

“Oh?” he manages, but it’s choked. 

“In a good way,” she replies. “The boy who walked out that door two months ago is not the same boy who came back yesterday.” 

“I hear moving does that to people,” he whispers. He doesn’t dare to speak any louder. “I can vouch for that.” 

She looks back at him, for a long moment, and pats his hand once more, leaving her palm covering his. “David, you will always be welcome in this house.” But there’s something about the way she says it, something that aches to be heard yet is trying not to seem too eager. Too overbearing. And in that moment, he realizes something. 

She knows. 

“Oh God,” he breathes. “Oh my God.” His hand is shaking and the wine is sloshing and fuck everything he said about being trained by the best, he’s about to drop this very nice cabernet all over their white-painted porch. 

“Oh sweetheart, no, no, no.” She’s up and perching on the arm of his chair, rubbing her hand up and down his back even as she takes his glass and sets it down on the side table. “Breathe, David. Breathe for me, sweetheart,” she urges, continuing to run her hand up and down his back, guiding his head between his knees. 

Oh God, Patrick’s mother knows. They were too obvious. They fucked everything up. 

“David, listen to me. You’re starting to hyperventilate,” she says, a little stern now. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice and slow.” 

If only she knew he said almost those exact words to her son just yesterday. 

“That’s it,” she murmurs, softer now, like speaking to a spooked horse. But David couldn’t run even if he wanted to because he’s pretty sure the bones in his legs have liquified. 

“How did you know?” he croaks. 

She runs her hand along his spine and gently cups the back of his neck. “I saw your face when Rachel walked in.” 

He breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, finally sitting upright and looking at her with what he can only assume are puffy, red-rimmed eyes. 

“And I see his face every time he looks at you,” she says and _ that _does him in all over again. 

His face crumbles and she guides him to her chest with a whispered, “Oh, my sweet boy,” holding him tight and gently rocking him back and forth as he cries into her shirt. 

It takes him a while to get a hold of himself and he’ll remember to be mortified later, but right now, someone’s mom is hugging him like he hasn’t been hugged in so long and he misses Adelina more than he can stand. 

That’s what Schitt’s Creek is missing. Her. 

Though Marcy Brewer is rapidly giving her a run for her fucking money. 

He pulls away and she’s quick to cup his face and gently wipe his tears with her thumbs. He groans, but he’s congested now so it comes out rather pathetic, and she laughs at him in that lovingly teasing way Patrick has, which sends tears streaming down his face all over again. 

Christ, these Brewers. 

“You’re not mad?” he finally manages and her jaw drops. 

“Gosh, no, David! Honestly, I’m just - _ relieved_.” A tear falls on her cheek as well. “Relieved to know why he and Rachel never worked. Relieved to know why he ran. Why he was distant. Why he barely mentioned you, because when he did, gosh you could just hear something in his voice.” She squeezes his arm, even as she presses a kiss to his head. 

“He doesn’t - ” he stops and hiccups. “Oh God, he wants to tell you. It’s really new. We’re really… new.” 

Marcy smiles kindly. “Could have fooled me. And if there’s anything I know about my boy, it’s that he does things in his own time. And he can take all the time in the world. I would never rob him of that moment.” 

“Is Clint - will he…” God he can’t even say it. 

“David, Clint already knows. Not that exactly, he’s a bit of an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart, God knows I love him for it - but he knows something has changed. He knows that Patrick is happy - possibly for the first time ever. If there’s anything either of us could be upset about in this situation, it’s that we didn’t see how unhappy he was for so long.” Her voice wavers and another tear falls. 

“Marcy, _ he _ didn’t even know why. What could you have done?” 

“I don’t know. Loved him better? So he knew he could come to us?” She shakes her head and shrugs and the move looks so foreign on her competent shoulders that he doesn’t know how to process it. 

Other than by saying, “You love him perfectly.” 

She smiles down at him and presses another kiss to his head. “I’m so very glad to finally meet you, David.” 

He laughs and goes to give her another hug, but Marcy hastily moves away from the chair and David doesn’t realize why until he notices Patrick’s car pulling up in front of the house. 

He clears his throat and wipes the sleeve of the hoodie over his eyes and grabs his wine glass, raising his eyebrows at Marcy over the rim and she gives him a subtle nod that he looks okay as she runs a palm over her own cheeks and quickly grabs her glass. 

The rain makes it hard to see through the windows, so David can’t tell what mood Patrick is in. But he promised he’d come back and he did, so David has to be grateful for that. 

Patrick exits the car and jogs up the path in his haste to get out of the rain, all but leaping the few steps to the porch. “Starting without me, I see,’ he says, gesturing to their wine glasses, but he stops short when he gets a good look at their faces. “Everything okay?”

“Good, good,” Marcy says with a serene smile and acting worthy of Moira Rose. “How was Rachel?” 

“Good,” Patrick replies, fidgeting with the keys in his hand. “I think, uh - I think we cleared the air a bit. We needed to talk.” 

David can tell both Marcy and Patrick are resolutely not looking in his direction, though for very different reasons. (Or the same. They just don’t know it’s the same. Ugh, espionage is hard.) 

“We’re okay now,” Patrick says and Marcy nods. 

“I’m glad.” 

Patrick finally looks at him, and David gives him an encouraging smile. He’s glad he and Rachel are okay. Truly. But the way he’s looking at him makes David want to pull him into his lap and share his wine and, though he’s pretty sure Marcy would be okay with that, they can’t go showing all of their cards at once. Any of them. 

As if sensing they need a moment, Marcy stands. “Honey, I’ll get you a glass. I have to check the oven.” She winks at David as she opens the door, and he flushes as Patrick takes the chair on his opposite side. It may not be his lap, but he offers his wine glass for a sip anyway and Patrick gratefully takes it. 

“She’s looking forward to meeting you,” he says after he swallows. “Rachel.” 

“Yeah?” 

Patrick looks up and meets his eye then. David can see everything he wants to say in them. “Yeah,” he whispers and his voice catches. It went well and David is so, so glad. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, too.” Shockingly, it’s true. 

Suddenly Patrick frowns and glances down before smiling slowly. “I think I like the sight of you in my clothes.” 

“It was chilly,” he defends. 

“Uh huh, sure.” He reaches for David’s glass and takes another sip, turning serious when he lowers it once more. “You sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” David whispers. “I’m great. I mean, your mom made lasagna. What more could I want?” 

And something in Patrick’s face changes. Not anything bad, just - something. “She did?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s my favorite. She always made it on my birthday.” He tries to shrug it off like it’s no big deal, but it clearly is. He’s touched. “She must really love you if she whipped it out tonight.” 

_ Nah, _ David thinks, shaking his head at all that’s gone down in the last hour. _ She just loves you. _

xxxxxx

David all but _ faceplants _ into the lasagna, slurping tomato and meat and ricotta and noodles with far more enthusiasm than he should in front of a new… whatever Patrick is (everything) - but Marcy’s lasagna is _ so good _ and David is _ so hungry _ and, look, this is just who he is. Take him or leave him. 

Patrick and Marcy seem to be laughing at him, but he honestly doesn’t care. Marcy’s eyes practically twinkle with both mirth and pride, and she is more hands on than she has been since they arrived: touching his shoulder as she passes, running a hand down his back as she leans over to fill his glass. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice, which, like, thank God - but it fills David up with a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine. 

This time, Patrick and David manage to talk Marcy into submission and do the dishes themselves while she sits at the table watching. Given her newfound information, David knows she’s studying them. It should make him feel self-conscious, but it doesn’t because he knows her gaze is one without judgment. They work in tandem - Patrick washing, David drying - and David wonders if Marcy sees what he saw last night as she washed dishes with her son: two people who belong together. 

With the kitchen sorted, they head into the living room. Marcy and Patrick have already talked to Clint, and the nurse confirmed a discharge the next day. Apparently his numbers are back to a range the doctors like, so they’ll pick him up in the morning. 

With the kitchen cleared away, they settle into the living room - Marcy in a chair and David and Patrick on the couch (with about two feet of space between them). Despite threatening to whip out old home movies, they settle for _ When Harry Met Sally_, which is playing on some channel. Marcy and David spend it listing all of the ways Carrie Fisher is the best part of the film while Patrick kicks back with a dopey smile on his face, just along for the ride. She begs off after Harry and Sally sleep together, leaning down to kiss Patrick on the cheek before turning and (surreptitiously) winking at David as she reminds them to turn out the lights. 

Once she’s safely upstairs, Patrick eliminates the space between them and David gladly leans into him, pulling Patrick’s arm across his shoulders and threading their fingers together. They stay like that through the rest of the film. 

Marcy wasn’t kidding. They really did kill the rest of the wine in the house - not that there was much - and by the time they head up to bed, David’s head is feeling pleasantly fuzzy and his throat is tight from what he classifies as Meg Ryan’s career-defining performance. It could also just be the guy climbing the stairs at his back, though. 

One of the most famous lines from the film is echoing in his head as he reaches the second floor: _ “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” _

For someone who lives and breathes romantic comedies and worships at the altar of Nora Ephron, he always thought they were an ideal - something to strive for, but not something he’d ever attain. But now… 

Who the fuck knows? 

Patrick gets his arms around his waist and spins him. It’s not graceful and their noses bump, causing fits of giggles and whispered shushes. Once they both get a hold of themselves, Patrick stares at him in a way that’s so soft and so open, David feels like his heart is going to crack right down the center, spilling every hope and dream and fantasy he’s ever had. It’s terrifying. 

It’s exhilarating. 

Patrick swallows, glancing from his eyes to his lips and back again. “This has meant more to me than,” he pauses, searching for the words, “than I think I’ll ever be able to tell you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies.

It’s too soon to figure out the rest of his life, but he really wouldn’t mind spending his tonights and tomorrows with the man in front of him. 

“Goodnight, David,” Patrick whispers, leaning in and pressing a chaste but no less knee-wobbling kiss on his mouth. 

“Goodnight, Patrick,” he quietly replies, backing away before he can yank Patrick with him into the bedroom. 

He shuts the door before he gives in to the devil on his shoulder, quickly changing into pajamas and sitting on the edge of the bed, listening for Patrick to finish in the bathroom. He doesn’t allow himself to move until the door to Patrick’s room closes, knowing that if he runs into him in the hall, as badly as he wants to see him once more, they’ll never get to bed. Or maybe they will. 

But David isn’t sure Patrick’s ready for that. He’s honestly not even sure _ he _ is.

What a novel concept. 

Ten-step skincare routine applied, he crawls back into bed, exhausted after the day he’s had. He’s just about to drift off when he hears the telltale creak of the door opening. 

He’ll deny the _ Oh thank God _ that nearly leaves his lips, but he’s so happy, he has to bite his lips to keep from laughing. 

“Is this okay?” Patrick asks, head poking in through the gap. 

David answers by lifting the covers. “Get in here.” 

Patrick closes the door with a whispered click and quickly hurries across the carpet, practically leaping into the bed and scooping the covers up to his shoulders as he settles on the pillow that still smells like David’s shampoo, eyes sparkling like he’s breaking the rules and is loving every minute of it. 

He’s so goddamn beautiful. 

David feels ten-years-old again, or what he imagines most ten-year-olds feel like when they have a sleepover. Not many friends wanted to stay at the Rose Family Mansion, at least not to spend time with David. 

But here Patrick is, lying on his side knees bumping David’s like they’re two commas curled in on each other. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” Patrick replies, still grinning. 

“Is this another moment for 16-year-old Patrick?” 

“I think this is a moment for every Patrick.” 

David squeezes his eyes shut and rolls onto his back. Christ, he has to stop saying stuff like that. 

“Too much?” 

David shakes his head. 

“Good,” Patrick breathes, leaning over him and hovering, waiting for David to open his eyes once more before pressing their lips together. It’s soft and slow, but then Patrick licks at the seam, and David opens his mouth with a groan as he winds his arms around Patrick’s back, all but hauling him on top of him. 

The man in his arms is so loved and, sure, Patrick must know it on some level, but he doesn’t know just how much. Not yet. 

It makes him feel both envious and grateful all at once. 

Patrick’s hand cups his cheek, bring him back to the present. He places his hand over it, and runs his fingers down his wrist, tracing the curve of those delicate bones. 

“I like you a lot,” he whispers first this time, shocking himself with the admission, despite the fact that it’s one he’s made before. Any time he’s said that first in the past, it was the quickest way to get whomever was in his bed out of it. And he always said it first, until he learned better. 

Actually, he was never presented with the opportunity to say it second anyway. Not until last night. 

Patrick grins and visibly swallows. “I like you a lot, too.” A crease forms in his forehead, like it physically pains him to look at David. “A lot, a lot.”

David swallows and nods, cupping the back of his neck and bringing them together once more. 

“I want to - ” Patrick gasps as he pulls away, biting his lip and trying to breathe. 

“Yeah?” he prompts and Patrick groans. 

“God, I want.” And he leaves it at that. Doesn’t clarify. “But I think I need to go slow. And probably not try things for the first time while my mother sleeps down the hall.” 

David scrunches up his nose at the thought, but Patrick is staring at him like _ that _ and David cannot be held accountable for his actions. He thrusts up minutely and Patrick’s jaw drops, eyes glazing over. 

“Was that okay?”

“Do it again,” he demands. David is only too happy to comply.

He starts them slow, a gentle roll of his hips as he carefully guides Patrick into the v of his legs. “Okay?” 

“Uh huh,” Patrick replies, lowering himself down and letting his weight press David into the mattress. 

David makes a sound like he’s been punched in his gut, and Patrick isn’t much better, letting out a whine that David makes a mental note to tease him about later. If he remembers. 

They start to move like the ebb and flow of the tide, and David tells himself to keep his eyes open, to watch Patrick because his face is doing things that could strip David bare if he let it. He’s not sure he could look away even if he wanted to. 

Patrick is hot and hard against him, and _ wow_, David has never wanted to get his hands on anything so much in his life, even at Fashion Week (any of them), but Patrick said ‘slow.’ 

He thrusts again and David presses his head back against the pillows, biting his lower lip to keep back all of the noises that are itching to get out. 

This doesn’t feel slow. 

He gets a hand on Patrick’s ass, purely instinct, and Patrick gasps into his mouth. “Not good?” 

“Oh God, so good,” he moans, continuing to thrust against him. 

David can feel himself hurtling towards a conclusion which is inevitable at this point. His gut is coiling, ready to spring, and his fingers are digging into Patrick’s back. “If you don’t want this to get sticky, you’re going to have to stop soon.” 

“Can’t,” Patrick gasps. 

“Thank God,” he groans, hooking his legs around Patrick’s hips and urging him on. He hasn’t dry humped to completion in years, but _ oh_, it’s much better than he remembers. Then again, maybe it’s just the company. 

“David,” he whines, pressing their foreheads together, ragged breath mingling. 

“It’s okay, I’m with you,” he whispers, sliding his hands up over Patrick’s shoulders to hold his head, forcing their eyes to meet. He’s never willingly sought this kind of intimacy in his life. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Patrick grits out. “Fuck, I’m gonna - I’m coming-” he buries his face in David’s neck and groans his name into his skin. 

David feels dampness at his groin and that’s all it takes to throw him over the ledge. He bites down on Patrick’s t-shirt, getting a good chunk of his trapezius as well, to muffle his moans as his legs lock around Patrick’s still-rocking hips. 

They stay like that for a second, clutching each other as they slow to a stop. Patrick lifts his head just enough to look into David’s face. Sweat is beading at his temple and the breath he’s still trying to catch is warm and minty, puffing across David’s damp skin. He lifts up his hand and smooths over one of David’s brows, before cupping his face and pressing a simple kiss to his still-parted lips. 

“Wow,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” David replies. 

“You okay?” 

He nods. “Are you?” 

“Perfect.” 

And yes, despite the mess in their pants, things do feel kind of perfect. He unhooks his legs from around Patrick’s back, letting his knees fall open which presses their groins together once more. They both let out matching whimpers and then start giggling. 

“Be right back,” Patrick says, kissing David again before getting up and padding to the door a little gingerly, fabric sticking in places he probably doesn’t want it to. 

He returns a few minutes later in new pajama bottoms with a warm washcloth in hand, handing it to David with far more shyness than a man who just had an orgasm in his arms should have. 

“I’ll just - ” he starts to turn around so David can clean himself up in relative privacy, but David gets a hand on his arm and turns him back.

“I don’t mind if you see.” 

Patrick stares at him for a second before slowly sitting down on the edge of the bed again. His hands are shaking, but he takes the washcloth anyway, watching as David lifts his hips and kicks his pajamas off before peeling his soiled underwear down his thighs. 

He hears Patrick inhale sharply. “Can I...?”

David finally looks at him and Patrick is - Patrick is staring at him like he’s something reverent. Something worthy of worship. He looks like he wants to drop down to his knees and not for the reason people usually do for David. 

He nods and watches silently as Patrick carefully and meticulously cleans him before grabbing his pants and sliding them back up his legs. He lets the washcloth fall to the floor next to the underwear and the second it leaves his fingers, David is pulling him back against his chest, bundling him under the covers and away from the world. 

Patrick’s head rests over his heart and David wills it to chill out, but the rebellious thing so rarely listens.

“Stay,” he whispers, not knowing if he means tonight or forever. 

“Yes,” Patrick replies, not bothering to ask for clarification either. 

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in years. 

xxxxxx

He stares at himself in the bathroom, so glad no one can see the toothpaste dribble out of the side of his mouth because of the shit-eating grin currently splitting his face. 

Last night was - yeah. 

There are many words for what last night was, but unfortunately, his brain can’t seem to articulate any of them beyond _ uh huh_. 

He wipes the toothpaste off, but the grin remains, even as he pads downstairs in his pajamas, hair awry, just as Marcy is heading for the door. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she says, and he can’t deny how much he loves it when she calls him that. 

“Morning. Have you seen Patrick?” This is now the second time he’s woken in his bed and Patrick’s been gone. They’re going to have to have a chat about that.

“Oh, he’s playing catch with the neighbor’s boy.” 

_ Oh. _ He smiles - a small, secret thing. Nevermind then. 

She gives him such a fond look as she gives his outfit an up-and-down. No one outside of his family sees him without his armor, but Marcy Brewer somehow burrowed her way past his defenses when he wasn’t looking, much like her son. And if she knows what they got up to last night, well, her poker face is fierce. 

“Not a morning person then?” 

He snorts and gestures at himself sweepingly. “What gave me away?”

She laughs and pats his stubbled cheek. He preens under the attention, nearly leaning into her touch. “I’m going to pick up Clint.” 

And _ that _ wakes him up pretty quick. “Oh my God, do you need help?” 

“No, no. Patrick is coming with me. But Tommy saw him and I told them they could have ten minutes. You grab some breakfast - there’s a plate of pancakes warming in the oven - and we’ll be back soon.” 

He groans at the thought of pancakes, and she laughs at him again as she turns and heads through the screen door. “Patrick! David’s up!” she calls. 

He watches through the window as Patrick throws the ball one more time to a boy with dark hair. He says something to him and the boy nods before running back to his house as Patrick turns and jogs to his. He’s up the steps and through the door before David can even think to school his expression into something slightly less… moonstruck. He takes heart in the fact that Patrick doesn’t look much better when he catches sight of him. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” Patrick replies. He glances over his shoulder to see his mom getting in the car, and he steps forward, wrapping his arms around David’s waist as David’s automatically rest on his shoulders. 

“You keep leaving me in bed. Should I be worried?” 

Patrick’s ears go adorably pink and he looks down, laughing slightly. “Uh - when we’re home, I-I promise not to leave the bed until you’re awake. If that’s something you’d be up for.” 

There’s a joke there, but it’s too easy. And David wants it too much to make light of it. 

Patrick said _ home_.

“I’m up for it.” 

Patrick smiles the smile David is learning is just for him: soft and fond and teasing and just sly enough to show he knew the joke was there when he said it, and he knows David didn’t take the bait. 

“Good. We’ll be back soon. I’m sure Dad is all but ready to sprint out of there.” 

“Mmm. In my expert medical opinion, I’d advise against that.” 

“Oh yeah? Your expert medical opinion?” 

“Mm hm. I once dated the team doctor for the Patriots.”

“Of course you did, babe.” 

_ Babe. _There it is again. And Patrick doesn’t need to know what exactly that word does to him. 

“I’ll see you soon. Enjoy your pancakes.” 

“You know I will.” 

And with that, Patrick gently slaps his ass and departs, leaving David standing agape in the hallway. 

At least having an empty house gives him time to get dressed and do his full routine. For the first time in three days, there’s no rushing to be somewhere. He even brings his mug of coffee into the shower with him, a luxury he hasn’t allowed himself in far too long because Alexis usually ends up banging on the door, yelling about hot water, when all he wants to do is stand under the spray and sip his caffeine. 

He dresses and packs his bag because he has an idea that he hopes Patrick agrees to. But before he can think about what Alexis would say about him stuffing last night’s underwear into a side pocket of her Louis Vuitton, he hears the car pull into the driveway again less than an hour after they left (ah, small town hospitals and their limited paperwork). 

David hurries downstairs, holding doors open and fluttering around trying to be useful as Marcy grabs bags and Patrick helps his father begin the slow trek into the house. He deposits Clint in a chair in the living room, propping his feet up on an ottoman and stepping back to admire his handiwork. 

“You good?” 

“As good as can be,” is Clint’s reply, giving his son a wry grin. He looks better than he did the day before - more color, more energy. It could also just be the newfound freedom talking. 

Marcy takes Patrick’s place at Clint’s side and David steps into the hallway, beckoning Patrick to him with a tilt of his head. 

“Hey, I had a thought.”

“Oh?” And that’s when Patrick notices David’s packed bag at the foot of the stairs. His head snaps up, panicked expression firmly in place. 

“Only if you agree,” he’s quick to reassure. “But it’s Monday - the store’s day off. I think it might be a good time for me to drive back.” 

“Back?” 

“Yeah, just for a bit. You stay here. Reconnect with your parents. Help your mom help your dad. I’ll head back and take care of the store for the week. You know Stevie can’t take that much time away from the motel and I do _ not _ trust Alexis on her own. I’ll come back next weekend and get you.”

Patrick blinks. “You’d do that?” 

“Patrick,” he starts, taking hold of his upper arms and squeezing, “I’d do anything for you.” He watches Patrick’s eyebrows fly up and feels the need to amend his frankly alarming declaration. Cut the sentiment with a joke, no matter how true the words are. “Well, not _ anything_. Outdoor excursions must be negotiated in advance.” 

But Patrick is still looking at him a little shell-shocked. The joke did not work as planned. _ Shit. _

“You’re willing to drive three hours alone to take care of the store - alone - and then drive three hours back just to come get me?” 

“I have Mariah to keep me company,” he says, feeling a little self-conscious about his offer now. And showing his hand. 

Patrick continues to stare and now David is getting worried. They’ve shared a business, a bed, a family crisis, and an emotional breakdown together. He’s not sure why this, an incredibly responsible, _ adult _ plan of attack, seems to be the tipping point. 

“Patrick?”

But suddenly, Patrick turns and strides back towards the living room.

“Where are you going?” 

“I have to do something,” he mumbles, disappearing into the room. 

David starts to follow him just as he hears him say, “Mom, Dad, I need to tell you something.” 

_ Oh sweet baby Jesus. _

He stops dead and puts a hand on the wall, wanting nothing more than to beat a hasty retreat and yet his feet seemed to be glued to the fucking floor. 

“What’s up, bud?” he hears Clint ask as Marcy merely says, “Oh?” 

“Yeah, um… I know we haven’t talked much about why I left. We haven’t talked much at all, really…” 

God, David wishes he could see his face. 

“I think you knew it was never working with Rachel. And I wasn’t entirely sure why at the time, but I knew I needed a fresh start. So I left.” 

Clint_ just _ got home. They really don’t need to do this now. 

“Um, I found myself in Schitt’s Creek, of all places,” Patrick continues. “I met this guy who put me up in his house and gave me a job.” He laughs. “He’s ridiculous and I adore him, though his grasp of personal boundaries could use some work.”

Okay, that’s a topic they’ll be revisiting. 

“It was because of him and his generosity that I met this other guy. Someone smart and funny and creative with a vision I wanted to be a part of. So… I went into business with him.” 

Bless Marcy and Clint Brewer for keeping quiet. 

“But you know that. You know all of that. What you don’t know…” he stops and silence reigns. David holds his breath. 

“It’s okay, sweet boy,” Marcy murmurs encouragingly, and David has to clap a hand over his mouth to keep the sob back. 

“What you don’t know is that I started having feelings for him.” He waits a moment, as if letting that absolutely earth-shattering pronouncement settle. 

Fuck, David’s never been prouder of him. 

“I didn’t know how he felt or if I’d ever get the courage to tell him. We were business partners and there was a lot at stake if this - if this didn’t work out.” 

There’s still a lot at stake, but David takes comfort in knowing that Patrick is speaking about it in the past tense. As if the hump of worry is over. 

“But I asked him out on a date. Granted, he didn’t realize was a date, but that’s neither here nor there. He got there in the end.” 

David huffs out a wet breath and he can taste his tears through his smile. 

“And he’s been - he’s been perfect. From the second I texted that I couldn’t come to the store, that I had to go home, he’s been - everything. He distracted me on the ride and held me as I broke down in the hospital bathroom - ”

“Son,” Clint murmurs, sounding pained, but Patrick plows on. 

“He cooked and cleaned and made jello and basically held me together over the past 48 hours, so I could be… useful. So I could, hell, function. He means - a lot to me. And I want you to know that.” His voice breaks. “I need you to know how much David means to me.” 

Tears silently track down his cheeks and his heart feels like it’s been carved from his chest. But, like, in a good way. He feels so much, he may explode. He’s sure scientists would refute that claim, but fuck it, they’ve been wrong before. 

“I just needed you to know,” Patrick repeats. 

“We know now, sweet boy,” Marcy replies and David’s _ done. _His tears are no longer silent, audible sniffles and heaving gasps threatening to bring him to his knees. His hand on the wall is the only thing keeping him upright. 

Patrick appears in the hallway a moment later not looking much better. “Come in here,” he manages. 

“Are you sure?” 

Patrick smiles. He looks like a weight has been lifted from his (admittedly) broad shoulders. “Yeah, pretty sure.” And then he holds out his hand, which David takes, letting himself be led into the living room. 

Marcy is crying but beaming, and even Clint has tears in his eyes as he struggles to stand. 

“Oh my God! What are you doing?” David blurts. “Please do _ not _ get up!” 

“Too late,” Clint says with a sly smile. Then, he sobers and holds out his hand. “Take care of my boy.” 

Patrick inhales sharply at his side, and David gives his hand a squeeze before letting go so he can cross to Clint. 

It’s the first time he’s been jokingly threatened by the father of someone he’s dating. He didn’t realize he wanted to check that off the bucket list of life until this very moment. 

He takes Clint’s hand and firmly shakes it up and down. “Yes, sir.”

“And make sure my boy takes care of you,” Clint follows it up with, and oh David _ cannot _fall to pieces again when he just got himself together. 

_ “Take this. It’s my card and I have a feeling like you will need it.” _

_ “You know the good thing about the messages was that I was able to get enough information to fill out your forms.” _

_ “I’m just dropping off your business license and activating my allergies.” _

_ “Listen, if you need help, I’m happy to help.” _

_ “I think you need some more start-up money.” _

_ “Well, when you’re supporting local businesses, there are grants you can apply for, and I would be happy to assist you with those applications.” _

_ “I actually picked out that frame.” _

_ “Oh I’m gonna get the money.” _

_ “You can crash at my place tonight if you need to.” _

_ “I watched a lot of YouTube tutorials.” _

_ “I also got the insurance you forgot to get.” _

_ “We could go for a birthday dinner.” _

_ “It’s just the receipt from our first sale at the store.” _

_ “Thank you for making that happen for us.” _

“Oh, uh,” David doesn’t even bother to hide his megawatt smile. “No problem there.” 

Marcy moves into his space, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him tightly. “I’m so happy for you both,” she whispers, pulling away and cupping his face in her hands. 

“Your son is one of the best people I’ve ever met.” He’s sure the proof of how happy he is is beaming out of every crack his skincare routine tries to hide. Over her shoulder, Clint is hugging Patrick the way Johnny sometimes tries to hug David. Perhaps he should let him one of these days. It looks… nice. Really nice. 

Clint cups the back of Patrick’s head and they share a moment of silent communication, the kind of thing only fathers and sons have. 

Patrick turns a second later and crashes his hug with Marcy. “Beware. She may look sweet, but she’s vicious when necessary.” 

“Mama Bear,” David says with affection and Marcy laughs. 

“And don’t you forget it.” 

Patrick gets an arm around his waist and David leans into his side, safe in the knowledge that they can do this now. 

“David is going back to Schitt’s Creek today,” Patrick announces, breaking him from his contemplation. 

“What?” Marcy looks genuinely sad. 

“I can’t leave Stevie and my sister in charge of the store all week. I’ll take Patrick’s car and be back over the weekend. He’ll stay here.” 

As sad as she is to see David go, he can see that the thought of a week with her son is making Marcy all teary again. He loves that he can give them this. Some of the time back, even if it’s just a matter of days. 

“When are you heading out?” Patrick asks and David winces. 

“Now-ish. Get back in plenty of time to right whatever wrongs Stevie and Alexis wrought before we open again tomorrow.” 

Patrick smiles knowingly and presses a kiss to his jaw, glowing in the fact that he can do so now in front of whomever he likes. “We owe them each a very large gift basket.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says begrudgingly. But not really. Well, maybe just Stevie. She went… above and beyond this weekend, and he’ll spend ages paying her back. 

He starts to say his goodbyes, because if he doesn’t extricate himself from this lovefest know, he really will never leave. Emotions usually give him hives, but he’s finding that the good ones - Well. The good ones he may have to start getting used to. They seem to be slapping him in the face left and right these days. 

He tells Marcy that he stripped his sheets and put them in the washer along with the towels, firmly ignoring the teasing (and besotted) look Patrick is sending his way:

_ “David, you Facetimed me from your in-laws’ laundry room.” _

See if he ever helps her with the motel laundry ever again. ‘Help’ is a strong word, though. ‘Moral support’ is more apt and even that’s sometimes a stretch. 

He finds himself in the hall again, his Louis Vuitton bag (that he’s definitely holding as collateral in case Alexis _ did _ fuck up the store) at his feet. Patrick is looking at him like he has so many things to say but he’s not sure what to start with. They’ve said some of it already, in quieter moments, under the cover of darkness. It’s easier then when they don’t feel quite as laid bare as they do now, out in the open, sunlight streaming in through the windows.

After another minute, David decides to save Patrick from himself “I know,” he murmurs, leaning in and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Me too.” 

“I’ll miss you,” Patrick says instead, swallowing hard before giving him a rueful look, like he can’t believe he’s getting choked up when they’re going to see each other in a matter of days. 

But David is pretty sure this is the first time someone has ever said to him that he’ll be missed. The idea of it knocks the breath from his chest, so he can’t fault Patrick for the dramatics. 

“I’ll miss you, too,” he says roughly, pressing another kiss to those lips. 

This doesn’t feel like day three. And maybe that’s because it’s not. He’s shared more emotionally with Patrick over the last 72 hours than he has in every relationship combined. Whatever they had, which was pretty special to begin, has just grown that much deeper. That much stronger. 

He sounds like one of his ex-therapists, but who the fuck knows? Maybe she was onto something. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he says and Patrick grins. 

“You better.” 

He picks up his bag and heads out the door, opening up the car and immediately connecting his phone. 

He blasts _ Dreamlover _on repeat, not the entire way home, but it’s a near thing. For reasons totally unrelated to anything happening in his life right now, of course. 

_ I want a lover who knows me _   
_ Who understands how I feel inside _   
_ Someone to comfort and hold me _   
_ Through the long lonely nights _   
_ Till the dawn _   
_ Why don't you take me away _

_ Day three_, he thinks, shaking his head and laughing.

Who fucking knew. 

Coda

David paces the store, phone pressed to his ear and eyes never straying far from the cafe in case Twyla actually _ doesn’t _ hold Patrick conversationally hostage and he returns far sooner than the average 18 minutes it usually takes him to pick up their lunch. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Marcy answers and David can’t help but smile. 

“Hi, Marcy, how are you?” 

“Good, good. How are things? How’s the store?”

“Store is great. Things are good.” He inhales sharply. “Actually, I have an idea I want to run by you.” 

“Wait, honey, wait - let me put the phone on speaker so Clint can hear.” 

“Hi, David!” Clint calls from the background. 

“Hi, Clint!” 

“How are my boys?” 

He smiles so hard his eyes close, and he runs into the table in the center of the room. 

“Ow! We’re good. Patrick got me to play a baseball game, if you can believe it.” 

Marcy gasps and Clint cheers. “Send pictures!” 

“Absolutely not,” he replies, eyeing the cafe once more. “I don’t have a ton of time. I have to do this while Patrick is getting lunch.” 

“Are you all right?” Marcy asks, and David holds his breath for a moment. 

“I’m fine. I’m great, actually.” He’s using that word a lot lately. He can’t help it if that’s the way his boyfriend makes him feel. Even if his boyfriend’s desires sometimes are absolutely _ incorrect. _

But Patrick wants it so David wants it. And, goddammit, it’s gonna be perfect. 

“I’m calling to invite you to a party.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] my heart was broke, my head was sore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770436) by [Amanita_Fierce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanita_Fierce/pseuds/Amanita_Fierce)


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